My Favourite Thief
by Mulli21
Summary: The last thing he expected was to steal her heart... unless it was that she'd steal his. D/H R&R Please
1. Chapter 1

My Favourite Thief

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. The Main characters belong to JK Rowling and the plot and the rest of the characters belong to Karyn Monk. I only brought the 2 together.

**London, England**

He hoisted his leg over the window sill and dropped heavily into the dark chamber, barely stifling a groan.

_I'm getting to old for this._

Cursing silently, he rubbed the muscle spasm griping his shoulder. He should have known better then to climb that tree. Since when had they started growing with so few branches? He had thought he would ascend it with the agility of an acrobat, easily shifting from branch to branch. Instead he had dangled from it like a frantic puppy, legs swinging and scrambling, arms quivering. At one point he had lost his grip and nearly crashed to the ground. That would have been fine entertainment for the ladies and gentlemen attending Mr. and Mrs Chadwick's dinner party on the main floor, he reflected darkly. Nothing like having a masked man plummet from the sky just outside your dinning room window as the house elves are heaping your plate with stringy mutton and greasy peas.

He stood unmoving, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the dark. It was quickly apparent that Mrs. Chadwick liked gold. Everything within her bedroom fairly shimmered, from the heavy brocade coverlet upon her bed to the garishly carved commode that towered like a throne beside it. No doubt in her private moments she imagined herself the consort of a magnificent prince or duke, instead of the bloated, snivelling fop she had married. He supposed every woman was entitled to some fantasy in her life. His gaze shifted to the bureau at the opposite end of the chamber, which boasted a profusion of richly decorated bottles and jars. Stealing silently across the shadows, he reached for the jewellery chest rising amidst the clutter.

Locked.

He eased open the uppermost drawer of the bureau and rifled thought the layers of undergarments folded within. The key lay nestled beneath the armour of Mrs. Chadwick's formidable corsets. Why did women always presume thieve would never think to look there? He wondered. He supposed they preferred to believe that most men were either to modest or too gentlemanly to rummage through a woman's lingerie.

As it happened, he was neither.

Carefully inserting the key into the jewellery case's tiny lock, he turned it once, than raised the lid.

A glittering collection of precious stones lay gleaming upon the dark velvet within. In addition to her penchant for gold, Mrs. Chadwick also enjoyed the sensation of large diamonds, rubies, and emeralds against her skin. He supposed that was fair compensation for enduring the tedium of marriage to Mr. Chadwick for so many years. He lifted a magnificent emerald necklace to the thin moonbeam filtering through the window, watching in fascination as its color shifted from near-black to the clear green hue of the river he had played in for so many years as a lad.

The bedroom door opened suddenly, flooding him in a wash of light.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," the young woman standing in the threshold quickly apologized. "I didn't realize anyone was in here-"

Draco watched with grim resignation as under standing swept through her. Ultimately, he had no choice. Even so, guilt weighted heavy in his chest as he grabbed the girl and jerked her toward him. She stumbled forward and he caught her, then kicked the door shut. He casted a silence charm on her and twisted her around, imprisoning her slender form against him. Her fear was palpable, he could feel it in the rapid pounding of her heart against his arm, could hear it in her soft, desperate little pants of breath. Self-loathing welled within him.

_For Merlin's sake, focus._

"If you scream, I will kill you," he whispered harshly into her ear. "Do you understand?"

Her body stiffened. He was actually aware of the scent of her ad he held her close. Not roses or lavender, or any of the other sickly-sweet perfumes he was accustomed to women wearing. The girl pinned against him had an unusually light, clean fragrance, like the essence of a meadow just after a summer rain.

"I'm going to release the spell. If you swear that you won't scream or try to run away, I give you my word that you won't be harmed. Do I have your promise?"

She nodded.

Draco warily removed his hand from the girl's lips. He didn't know whether he could trust her. Her evening gown suggested she was one of Mrs. Chadwick's dinner guests. Whatever her reasons for leaving the dinning room, it likely wouldn't be long before a house elf was sent to find out what was keeping her. The girl's delicate rib cage continued to rise and fall against his arm. Her breathing had slowed a little, and he was grateful for that, even though he supposed it would have been better for both of them had she passed out. Then he could have simply laid her on the bed and climbed back out the window. As it was, he was going to have to tie her up so she couldn't go screaming out of the room the moment he left, compromising his escape.

"Please." Her voice was small, hesitant. "You're holding me so tight I can't breath."

She was Scottish, he realized, the sweetly refined cadence of her voice pleasing to him.

"Forgive me." He instantly released her.

She faltered slightly, as if she had not expected him to free her quite so abruptly. He instinctively reached out to catch her, but this time his hold was gentle. She glanced at him over her shoulder, surprised.

"Thank you."

Moonlight spilled across her face, illuminating her features. She was not as young as he had thought, for there were fine lines around her enormous dark eyes and across the paleness of her forehead, suggesting her age to be at least 25 years or more. Her check-bones were high and pronounced, emphasizing the elegant fragility that seemed to surround her. Her finely shaped brows were drawn together and her mouth was set in a sober line as she studied him, her expression hovering somewhere between fear and something else, an emotion that look almost like empathy. That was ridiculous, he told himself impatiently.

No woman of gently breeding would sympathize with a common jewel thief – especially one who had just threatened to kill her.

"You dropped your necklace." She pointed to the sparkling pool of emerald and diamonds upon the carpet.

Draco regarded her incredulously.

"It might be better to leave that one, and take a few smaller pieces instead," she suggested. "Mrs. Chadwick is sure to notice that her precious emerald necklace is missing the minute she goes to put her jewellery away tonight. If you take some of her less important pieces, she is unlikely to realize right away that they are gone, which means you will have an easier time selling them. Once their theft has been reported to the ministry and the Daily Prophet, your sources might be reluctant to buy them."

He raised an amused eyebrow. "Are you always this helpful during a robbery?"

She coloured slightly, embarrassed. "I just thought you might consider the advantages of selecting quality pieces which are more modest in appearance. The larger, more opulent stones are not always the most valuable – that can be flawed within."

"I realize that."

"Forgive me – of course you do."Her gaze became curious. "You're the Dark Shadow, aren't you?"

Draco stalked over to the bureau and began to ransack Mrs. Chadwick's intimate apparel, searching for something with which he could tie up his quizzical young guest.

"When do you think you will have stolen enough?"

He paused to look at her. "Excuse me?"

"The Daily prophet has been filled with stories of your robberies for months now," she explained. "I'm wondering when you think you will have stolen enough that you will be able to resign from a life of crime and apply your talents towards a more law-abiding profession. Ultimately, sir, I'm sure you will find the rewards are much greater in leading a respectable, productive life."

Anger pulsed through him. In his experience women who spewed sanctimonious advice about the path of righteousness had invariably lived sheltered lives. They didn't know the first goddamn thing about life beyond their own smug existence.

"It is something you should consider," she continued seriously. "If you are caught you will be sent to Azkaban. I can assure you that is not a very pleasant place to be."

"I'll bear that in mind." He yanked a stocking from the drawer. "I regret having to do this, but I'm going to have to tie you to that chair over there. I'll try not to make the bindings too tight-"

"Miss Granger?" there was a cursory rap upon the bedroom door before it swung open.

"Help!" shrieked a horrified elf, appalled by the sight of Draco in his dark clothes and mask stalking toward the girl with a twisted stocking in his hands. "Murder!" It tore down the corridor, screaming loud enough to wake the dead.

"Quick – go out the window!" exclaimed the girl. "Hurry!"

Swearing furiously, Draco threw down the stocking toward the window. Shouting and screaming split the night air, causing the drivers, and the curious on the previously sedate street to surge toward the house. He was relatively certain he could scrabble down that godforsaken tree in less than a minute without breaking any significant bones.

The distinct possibility that some earnest champion from the mob might shoot him down from the branches like a giant, hapless bird stopped him.

"What are you waiting for – go!" The girl waved her arms at him as if she were shooing an errant child out the door.

Realizing he had little choice, he heaved one leg over the window sill and stretched his aching arms toward the tree.

A spell streaked through the darkness, clipping the branch where his fingers had brushed. "I got him!" roared an excited voice from below. "Stop, thief!"

"Come back!" pleaded the girl, grabbing him by his coat. "You can't go that way!"

"I realize that," Draco agreed tautly.

"You'll have to leave from Mr Chadwick's bedroom across the hall – hopefully there won't be anyone waiting for you on the other side of the house." She went to the doorway and peered into the corridor.

"Come out with your hands up!"

Draco joined the girl at the doorway to see a scrawny young man walking warily up the stairs, balancing his wand in his hands.

"I warn you," he yelled nervously, "I've killed before and I'm not afraid to do it again."

Draco thought that unlikely, unless that lad was referring to killing rodents. At that moment, however, the prospect of being jinxed by a terrified youth struck his as highly undesirable – especially given that the boy might miss and hit the pretty young stranger who was so gallantly trying to assist hi instead. With no hope of racing across the hallway to another bedroom, his only chance for escape had disintegrated. How ironic, he reflected bitterly, to be caught and arrested for his crimes at this late stage.

He exhaled in disgust and raised his hands.

"He has a wand!" Screamed the girl, suddenly at the boy. "Don't jinx him or he'll kill me!"

Draco stared at her in disbelief. "What in the name of Merlin are you doing?"

"We have no choice," she whispered fiercely. "You've got to use me to get out of here!"

"Let her go!" The boy sounded as if he was going to be sick. "I told you, I'm not afraid to jinx you!"

"For Merlin's sake, Dick, don't threaten him!" barked an Auror, venturing up the stairs behind him.

"He's liable to murder the whole bloody lot of us!" another Auror added, joining them.

"Fine, then!" squealed the boy, thoroughly agitated.

"Silence, all of you!" Breathless and sweating profusely, Mr Chadwick struggled to affect an air of dignified authority as he reached the top of the staircase. "This is Mr Chadwick speaking." He paused to dab his brow with a linen handkerchief, letting the import of his presence sink in.

"Mr Chadwick, thank goodness you're here." The girl pretended to sound relieved. 'Please tell everyone to clear the staircase and let us come down – he won't kill anyone as long as no one tries to stop him –"

"Everyone in the house has exactly two minutes to go down to the kitchen and lock the door behind them," snapped Draco. Since this girl had just added abduction to his list of crimes, he supposed he might as well play some actual part in it.

"Go into the kitchen?" Mr Chadwick sounded outraged by the idea. "Look here, sir, I don't know who you are or what you mean by breaking into my home, but I assure you that I am not moving from this spot until you release my guest safely into my custody, do you hear? Miss Granger's well-being is my responsibility, and I have no intention of abandoning her to your foul, despicable ways-"

"The first person I see upon leaving this room will be killed, Mr Chadwick," Draco vowed darkly, "and that includes you. Now move before I-"

A deafening blast suddenly tore through the house, cutting short Draco's threat.

"Run for your lives!" His bulging eyes nearly bursting from their sockets, Mr Chadwick knocked the startled Aurors aside as he fought to beat them down the stairs. 'Run before he murders all of us!"

The entire household instantly exploded into a maelstrom of fleeing bodies, the distinction of sex and class obliterated as elves and aristocrats crashed into one another in their desperate bid for safety.

"I told them to go into the kitchen," muttered Draco, exasperated. "Now I've got an even bigger crowd to contend with once I get outside."

"If you keep me in front of you, they won't jinx you," the girl suggested.

"I'm not taking you with me- that idiot boy is liable to kill you in his attempt t save you."

"I think he dropped his wand." She glanced around the door and saw the wand lying abandoned on the floor. "There you see? He must have thrown it down after the exposition."

"It's Miss Granger, is it?" Draco's tone was bland.

"It's Hermione, actually. Miss Granger always sounds so terribly formal –"

"It may surprise you to learn, Miss Granger, that I'm not in the habit of abducting helpless women and using them as a shield. I don't intend to start now." A dull throbbing had started to pound at the base of Draco's skull. He was beginning to wish he had stayed home that night,

"You're not actually abducting me – I'm offering to help you," Hermione pointed out. "Unless you are prepared to be arrested and spend the rest of your days in an Azkaban cell, you have to let me help you get out of here."

Her eyes were large and earnest. It was impossible to determine their color in the soft veil of light spilling into the room, but it struck Draco that they were unlike any he had ever seen. There was a singular strength emanating from the strange young woman standing before him, a unique resolve that was as bewildering as it was captivating.

He didn't know what to make of her. Any normal gentle-born woman would have been drowning in tears by now, begging him to release her unharmed. Instead this strange girl was will to help him escape. He went to the window and glanced at the crowd still gathered on the street below. The hammering in his head was spreading now, sending deep tentacles of pain streaking across his forehead and into his temples.

"Ok lets go." She said. Grabbing his arm and pulling it around her. As if she actually believed he was a man of great daring, who was capable of outwitting an irate mob. For some reason, he was loath to disillusion her. When was the last time a woman had looked at him with such pure, untainted trust in her eyes? He wondered bleakly. The pain in his head was getting worse now. He knew in a few minutes it would be excruciating, and then he would be unable to think at all. If there was any chance of escape, however small, this was his only moment to grasp it.

"And what do we do when we get outside?" he asked.

"Don't you know a car waiting for you?"

"No."

She frowned again, as if incomprehensible that a thief could attempt a robbery so poorly prepared. "Then we'll have to take mine," she decided moving toward the doorway.

"Are you hurt?"

She regarded him in confusion. "No – why?"

"Your leg – you seem to be having trouble walking."

"It's nothing," she assured him shortly. "I'm fine."

Shoving his wand into his coat he wrapped his arm around her.

"I don't need your help to walk," she protested, trying to push him away. "I'm quite capable of –"

"I'm only doing as you suggested and pretending that I am using you as a shield."

"Oh." She stopped fighting him, but her body was ridged beneath his arm. It was obvious he had touched raw never when he mentioned her leg.

"Once we are outside, if anyone decides to overtake me, I want you to get the hell away from me so you are out of harm's way." Draco regarded her seriously. "Is that clear?"

She shook her head. 'No one is going to attack you as long as I stay in front –"

"Is that clear?"

"If I move away from you, someone might jinx you."

"We're not leaving, Miss Granger, until you say yes."

She sighed reluctant. "Yes."

"Fine, then. Let's go."

They moved awkwardly down the staircase together. By the time they had reached the main floor, his accomplice was breathing heavily, and despite her assurance that she was fine, Draco knew her leg was painfully stiff. He had little time to reflect upon this, however, as they stepped up to the front door and into the view of the crowd awaiting them outside.

"Everyone move back," Draco commanded, holding fast to his partner, "and send Miss Granger's car over."

The terrified horde obediently took a few steps backward. The car, however, was not coming.

"Send Miss Granger's car over," repeated Draco heatedly. "Now!"

"I heard you the first time, you sodding piece of scum," barked a furious voice. "And if you so much as bend a hair on the lady's head while I'm bringing it to you, I'll be scraping your cowardly flesh from your thieving bones and chopping it fine after I grind you into meat!"

Draco watched in astonishment as an ancient little man scuttled as fast as his skinny legs would carry him toward the line of cars on the street. Displaying a remarkable agility for his advanced years, snapped the car into drive and sent the car lurching forward.

"That's Oliver," Hermione whispered to Draco as the car barrelled toward them. "He is very protective of me."

"Wonderful," drawled Draco.

The car clattered to a stop directly in front of the entrance. Oliver cast Draco a murderous look before regarding Hermione with concern. "Are you hurt?"

"No Oliver," Hermione assured him gently. "I'm fine."

"You better make sure she stays that way you spineless bastard," he warned Draco. "If you're thinking you'd like to keep your self in one piece."

The idea of the wiry little man fighting him was preposterous. But Draco recognized the old man's overwhelming fear for the girl pinned against him, and he knew better than to play with the old man's emotions.

He has learned that strength born of fear and frustration could be far more dangerous than that of mere youth and muscle.

"I give you my word that Miss Granger will not come to any harm as long as you do exactly as I say," he told him.

Oliver snorted in disgust. "Can't trust the word of a rouge who'd snatch a helpless young woman and push a wand into her ribs," he spat contemptuously. "You thieves today have no honour and that's the sad truth of the matter. Now in my day you'd never see me waving a wand about –"

"Please, Oliver," interrupted Hermione. "We have to go now."

Oliver glowered at Draco. "All right then, you wicked rascal, see if you have enough manners in you to help Miss Hermione into the car, and we'll be off."

Relaxing his hold on her slightly, Draco reached up to open the car door.

"No!" cried Hermione suddenly.

Draco turned just in time to see a nattily attired man clutching a wand at the front of the doorway from which he and Miss Granger had just emerged. One of Mr Chadwick's guests had not abandoned the house after all, he realized numbly. Instead he had hidden inside waiting for the perfect moment to race out and kill the infamous Dark Shadow in the back. The man's beefy hands were trembling visibly, his brow jewelled with perspiration as he levelled his wand at Draco.

Draco wrapped himself around Hermione, enveloping her in the hard shield of his body just as the jinx was shouted. Pain ripped into him, burning a path through flesh and bone. Holding Hermione fast, he jerked open the car door.

"Stop, thief!" roared the man. "Or I'll jinx you again!"

His shoulder on fire, Draco whipped around, shoving Hermione behind his back. He took his wand from his coat, "Throw down your wand or I'll kill your bloody-"Another yell was heard through the darkness.

Draco froze, knowing if he flinched the jinx would strike his protective young charge instead.

For a moment no one moved, anxiously waiting to see if the infamous Dark Shadow had been killed.

"Thomas!" screamed a woman suddenly. "Oh, dear Merlin- Thomas!"

Confused, Draco raised his gaze to the front door.

The fashionably attired guest lay sprawled upon the stairs, his arms and legs spread out upon the polished stone steps. At first it looked as if he merely slipped and fallen. But something was leaking across the pale surface of the step beneath him and weeping onto the next in a grotesque river of crimson.

"Dear Merlin- you killed him, you filthy bastard!" blazed Oliver, appalled.

Draco stared in bewilderment at the limp, bleeding form of the man on the stairs, his hand sill gripping his wand.

"Get in the car!" urged Hermione. "Now!"

"I'm not taking him anywhere," Oliver raged, "the bastard! He can bloody well hang-"

"He didn't do it!" Hermione was trying desperately to get Draco to move. "He couldn't have Oliver- he was trying to get me into the car! Please, you can't stay here!" Hermione pulled hard on Draco's arm trying to get him into the car.

The night was filled with screams now. Men and women were running away, disappearing down laneways and into neighbouring houses, wildly trying to escape the murdering Dark Shadow. There was nothing he could do for the poor bastard bleeding on Mr Chadwick's steps, Draco realized bleakly. Surrendering to Miss Granger's pleas, he helped her into the car. Then he hauled himself in and banged the door shut as the vehicle flew away.

Pain was everywhere now – blinding in ferocity. Its talons had sunk deep into his brain and eyes and ears, while the fire streaking through his shoulder was radiating to the tips of his fingers. His coat sleeve was torn, and his mouth was nauseatingly dry. He was alive, and so was the strange young woman who had interrupted his disastrous escapade.

Everything else was lost.

_**So what did you think? R/R **_

_**Thanks**_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. The Main characters belong to JK Rowling and the plot and the rest of the characters belong to Karyn Monk. I only brought the 2 together.**_

"I know you're there, Annie, so you don't need to be sneaking up the back stairs like a ghost, hoping I won't notice." Eunice banged her rolling pin against a crumbly ball of dough, throwing her considerable weight against the recalcitrant mound as she flattened it into submission.

"I don't want to disturb you." Annie adjusted the damp, thin hood of her cloak and stared guiltily down at her boots. "I didn't think anyone would still be in the kitchen."

"Miss Hermione hasn't returned from her dinner at Mr and Mrs Chadwick's, so were making biscuits while we wait for her, Oliver and Flynn to come in," Doreen explained, slapping several rounds of dough onto a baking pan. "Why don't you come have one with a nice cup of tea?"

Annie shook her head. "I'm dead tired." She hunched further into the depths of her cape. "I'll just be off to bed."

Doreen narrowed her eyes. Her aging vision had weakened in the past few years, but she was still canny enough to recognize when someone was trying to hide something from her.

"Why don't you let me take your cloak and dry it for you?" she offered kindly. "It's wet from the rain that's started – no point in dragging it all the way up to your room.

"No." Annie's pale hand clutched the garment closed at her throat. "I'd rather keep it with me – I'm cold."

Doreen dropped the last biscuit onto the baking pan and sighed. "All right keep it with you. But if you have a problem, you don't need to be afraid to tell me and Eunice, or Miss Hermione, if you prefer. That's what we're here for – to help you."

Eunice looked up from her dough, baffled. 'What problem?"

"There is no problem," Annie quickly assured her. "I'm fine."

Doreen fisted her blue-veined hands on her narrow hips, unconvinced. 'Then why are you trying so hard to hide your face?"

"I'm not." The girl's voice was small and tight.

"Did someone hurt you?" Eunice demanded.

Annie vehemently shook her head. "It's just a little bruise." Her voice began to break. "It'll be all gone by the morning-"

"All right then, my duck, let's have a look," soothed Eunice, wiping the flour from her strong, plump fingers as she moved toward the cowering girl. 'There is nothing to fear – I'm just going to take a look and see what can be done for it." She gently slipped Annie's hood off her head. "Sweet Merlin – who did this to you?"

"He didn't mean to hit me," Annie insisted, raising her hand to the ugly plum-colored stain blooming around her left eye. "I made Jimmy mad, is all, and he swung his fist before I had a chance to doge it. He'll be awful sorry about it the next time he sees me – I know he will."

"If I catch the filthy devil, I'll make him more than sorry!" raged Doreen, her little walnut-colored eyes blazing with fury. "I'll crown him with a pot and hex his ass before I throw him in the street!"

"Oh, please, Doreen, you mustn't hurt Jimmy." Annie regarded her imploringly. "He's just having a hard time being without me, is all." Her voice was soft with regret. "He misses me."

"He misses the brass you used to make for him by selling yourself on the streets to any piece of scum who fancied you, is more like it," fumed Doreen. "He misses feeling like he owns you."

"Here now, sit down and let's heal that eye." Eunice sat her down and gently touches the skin around the eye. "Does it hurt much?"

Annie winced. "I've had worse."

Eunice waved her wand saying a healing spell and the bruise disappeared. "Thank you." Annie was silent a moment before hesitantly asking, "You aren't going to tell Miss Hermione, are you? She'll be dreadfully disappointed in me if she knows I went and saw my Jimmy. When she asked me to come stay here, she said she believe I could make something of myself, as long as I was willing to give up whoring. I didn't know that meant giving up Jimmy, too." She bit her lip. "He thinks whoring is all I'm good for."

"We'll leave you to tell Miss Hermione about this yourself. But if she asks us if we knew about it, we aren't going to lie to her," Doreen warned sternly, "and neither should you."

"It's always best to tell the truth, even thought the truth may hurt a bit."

"I don't want Miss Hermione to think I've disobeyed her." Panic tightened Annie's thigh, sharp features. "Then she'll make me leave."

"Miss Hermione would not make you leave as long as she thought you were willing to honestly try for another life." Doreen assured her. "She lived on the streets herself, once, when she was a small girl. She's even spent time in prison."

Annie's eyes widened. "Really? For what?"

"For stealing, when she was not much younger than you."

"She doesn't judge people for having a bad start," continued Eunice, "as she knows most people with a hard start have no hope of making a decent life for themselves. That's why she opened up this refuge house - because she wanted to help."

"Sounds like they're home already," remarked Doreen as the roar of the engine came to a stop in front of the house.

Alarm spread across Annie's face. "I'm off, then," she said, leaping up from her chair. "I'll tell her about Jimmy in the morning.

'It can't be Miss Hermione – it's too early," Doreen argued, patting her shoulder.

"Eunice! Doreen!" Hermione's voice was anxious as she called to them from the main floor above the kitchen. "Come quick!"

"Something's amiss." Hissed Doreen, snatching up a heavy iron skillet.

"Ya." Eunice grabbed her wand. "You stay here, Annie, and don't move till we tell you its safe."

"And pull those biscuits out of the oven before they burn," added Doreen, heading up the stairs. 'They'll all be done for."

* * *

Hermione stood in the entrance hall, desperately struggling to hold up her half of the Dark Shadow. Her small friend, Flynn, who claimed to be 12 but struck Hermione as more the size of a 10 year old, was valiantly trying to support the enormous thief's other half.

"Let's toss him on the dinner table," Flynn suggested, fighting to keep from dropping his heavy, rain-soaked burden.

"I think he should be put to bed," Hermione countered. "He's very weak."

"_Stand back or I'll smash your skull in!_" Doreen exploded through the doors from the kitchen, waving a heavy black skillet before her.

Eunice burst into the hallway behind her, her wand out in front of her. "Sweet Saint Merlin!" she gasped, taking in the sight of Hermione and Flynn holding up the bleeding Dark Shadow between them.

"Flynn and I need your help." Hermione felt a little better at the sight of the two white-haired women flailing their makeshift weapon and their wand about. No matter how desperate the circumstances, she could always count on Eunice and Doreen to be ready to fight. "This man is injured and cannot walk."

"I can manage," grunted Flynn, his little freckled face twisted with exertion. "He isn't that heavy."

"You may find him light, boy," agreed Doreen talking hold of Draco's arm, "but Miss Hermione is not as young as you."

"Shall we take him to the kitchen?" asked Eunice, using the levitation charm on Draco.

"No let's take him to the empty chamber upstairs." Hermione clenched her jaw, trying to ignore the painful throbbing in her leg. She was not accustomed to bearing any weight on the injured limb other than her own. Most days even that was difficult for her. "He has been hexed and needs to be attended to."

Eunice regarded her with concern. 'I'm hoping that's his blood on your dress, and not yours."

"I'm fine Eunice."

"Oh, dear Merlin, Miss Hermione!" squealed Annie, emerging from the doorway to the kitchen. "I'm awful sorry – I told him to keep away!"

Hermione regarded her in confusion, "Do you know him?"

"Of course I know that stinking piece of drug – how dare he think he can go about frightening a fine lady like yourself!" Trembling with fury, Annie marched over to Draco. "Beating me is one thing, Jimmy, but scaring Miss Hermione here makes you lower than scum – do you hear? And don't try to hide from me behind some bloody mask!" She reached up to jerk his disguise off.

Draco's hand snaked around her wrist with bruising strength. "Don't touch me," he ground out softly, twisting her hand away from his face. "Or my mask."

"You aren't Jimmy!" Annie gasped, stunned.

"No," he agreed. "I'm not." He released her.

"He's the Dark Shadow." Flynn regarded her with great superiority, pleased to know something she didn't. "Miss Hermione found him trying to steal some jewels from Mr Chadwick's house, but instead of turning him over she decided to help him. Then someone try kill and was killed instead, only the Shadow here didn't do it, 'because he was protecting Miss Hermione. I was in the car and I saw the whole thing."

Doreen blinked, confounded. "He was protecting her?"

"Yep – he's schooled in the old ways." Oliver nodded with approval as he shuffled in through the front door.

"We've got to get him upstairs, quickly tend his wound, and try to get him safely out of here." Despite Hermione's concern for the Dark Shadow, she knew she could not possibly hide him in her refuge house for any length of time. "Everyone believes he has taken me hostage, even thought Oliver drove fast we got away swiftly, the Aurors are looking for us."

"It won't be long before they decide to come here, either hoping to find the Shadow, or at least find that Miss Hermione was released safe and just went home," finished Oliver.

"Right then – let's get him upstairs." Eunice waved her wand and levitated him up the stairs.

Breathing heavily, Hermione did her best to follow them up the stairs with her leg in the pain it was in.

"Someone new moving in?"

Draco turned his head to see a pretty, sleepy-eyed girl of 23 or so peering around a bedroom door, the brilliant red of her hair pouring over her simple white nightgown like flames. "Who's this then?" she wondered, staring at him with interest.

"We got the Dark Shadow, Ginny!" exclaimed Flynn, excited. "Come see!"

Ginny's eyes grew round. "Really?"

"Has he decided to stop stealing?" demanded a younger girl, appearing behind Ginny. With her flat little nose and her sharp chin she was not quite pretty, but there was a sweetly youthful quality to her that made her somewhat attractive nonetheless. Draco didn't think she could have been more than 15.

"I'm thinking he will, Violet," Oliver interjected, before Draco could answer. "If tonight counts for anything, the boy's losing his touch."

"I'm not losing a damn thing." The pain in Draco's head was nearly blinding now, and his shoulder felt as if it was being slowly ground into a pulp.

"If you aren't giving up your criminal ways, then what are you doing here?" demanded Violet testily. "Only people that are willing to make something better of them selves can stay at Miss Hermione's house. That's the rule."

"Right now I'm not overly concerned about his future plans, Violet," Hermione explained. "I'm more concerned that he not bleed to death before we can do something to help him. "

"Go down into the medicine chest in the kitchen and bring me some blood replenishing potion," added Eunice.

"And fire whiskey." Draco closed his eyes. "Lots of it."

"I'm afraid I don't keep fire whiskey in the house," Hermione told him. "If you would like, Ginny will bring you some pumpkin juice."

He raised his lids to glare at her. He had a fiery pain in his shoulder and an excruciating headache that was making him feel cold and nauseated. Did this sanctimonious young girl really believe all he needed was a god-damn cup of pumpkin juice? "Elf Wine, then."

"No elf wine, either, I'm afraid." She seemed utterly unmoved by his glower. Clearly his mask was protecting her from its full impact.

"I've some nice butter beer in the pantry," Eunice offered, taking pity on him. "You can have that."

The thought of ingesting some butter beer made Draco's stomach lurch. "No." Then, realizing that the elderly woman was offering him something that she probably believed was precious, he added, "Thank you."

"Pumpkin juice it is then, Ginny," declared Doreen, who had set to work with Oliver trying to remove Draco's gloves, blood-soaked coat, and shirt.

"I don't want anything." An overwhelming weariness was seeping through him, which combined with the crushing pain in his head made him want to retreat from the world. Sleep was what he needed. If he could sleep, the pain just might be gone when he woke up. He would worry about the pain in his shoulder, and the Aurors, and his disastrous visit to Mr Chadwick's house, in the morning.

"You'll be drinking it anyway," she informed him briskly. "By the looks of your clothes you've lost enough blood to float a little ship, and you have to have something other then the blood replenishing potion. I'll not have you die on my sheets – its bad luck."

"He's not going to die, is he?" Flynn looked disappointed.

"Not from a little burn like this." Having peeled the bloody layers of fabric off Draco's torso and mopped away most of the blood, Doreen was finally able to survey the actual damage to his shoulder. "The hex just barely hit his shoulder, he should be fine with some rest and a simple healing spell." She firmly pressed a wadded up cloth against the oozing wound.

"Why is he trembling like that?" asked Violet, concerned. "It's not cold in here."

"He's probably got a chill from losing so much blood," Eunice speculated. "Annie, run and gather up every blanket you can find – we'll pile them on him and see if we can't get him warm again."

"It's not the blood,' Draco managed, his teeth chattering as Annie left to do Eunice's bidding. "It's the pain – in my head."

"If you have a pain in your head, you'd best let me take of your mask and hat so I can apply my soothing lotion," Eunice told him. "It's good for inflammation of the brain, and an aching tooth."

"Laudanum." The word was barely a whisper.

Hermione looked at Eunice uncertainly.

"He's used it before or he wouldn't be asking for it," Eunice reflected. "His headaches must be a battle he's fought and lost before.

"Best you give him some, Eunice," said Oliver, frowning. "Must be a terrible pain to make a big lad like him shiver and shake like that."

"I'll just go and get it." Doreen said rushing out of the room.

"I'm going downstairs to clean up the mess we made as we came in from the rain," Oliver decided. "No point in leaving tracks for the Aurors to wonder about when they come."

"We've got everything you wanted," declared Ginny, racing through the door.

"Is this enough?" Violet appeared behind her.

"It'll do." Eunice started going about healing the burn on Draco's shoulder, and calming him as much as possible. Also she put a warming spell on him, so that he wouldn't be as cold, then she gave his the blood replenishing potion and the pumpkin juice.

"Here are some blankets!" Annie hurried into the room, her small frame all but hidden behind the mountain of cheap plaids and quilts she had stripped from the other beds.

"Right then, Annie, you and Miss Hermione lay them over him nice and warm," directed Eunice.

Hermione took one side of the first blanket Annie offered and laid it carefully over the Dark Shadow, covering him from the waist down, mover covers followed. After a few minutes Doreen returned with a small brown bottle, from which she carefully dispensed a series of drops into a glass of water.

"Easy now, boy, let's have you sit but a bit while I pour this down your throat," she said, wrapping one soft, fleshy arm beneath his neck.

Draco blindly opened his mouth, too over-whelmed with pain to care what the heel he was drinking. If these old ladies were trying to poison him, so much better. At least in death there would be some escape from this excruciating torment. The moment the familiar taste of the laudanum hit his tongue, he nearly whimpered with relief. It would take time for the drug to work, but at least there was a reprieve somewhere in front of him, if only he could hang on. He drained he glass, and then collapsed against the narrow little bed.

"I'm going to take your shirt and coat and see if there's any hope of washing this blood out and mending the scorch mark," said Eunice. "If not, don't worry – we'll find you something else to wear when you're leaving."

"Thank you." Draco's tongue felt thick in his mouth, making the words clumsy.

"Polite, isn't he?" observed Violet after Eunice and Doreen were gone. "Talk like a real nice guy, he does."

"The Dark Shadow is not nice guy," objected Flynn, clearly interpreting this as an insult. 'He's one of us."

"He may have started as one of us, but he talks too fine to be one of us anymore," Annie argued.

"He's a thief, isn't he?" violet looked to Hermione to settle the matter. "Didn't Flynn say you found him stealing Mr Chadwick's jewels?"

"He was in the process of stealing when I came upon him." Hermione gently laid a blanket over the Dark shadow's body. Now that the laudanum was starting to take effect, his shivering had subsided, but she was worried that he might still be cold. She tucked the blanket securely beneath the feather mattress, covering the hard, muscled contours of chest and belly. His black mask and hat remained in place, safely concealing his identity for the moment. His breathing had slowed and deepened and his eyes were closed, suggesting he had fallen asleep.

"Then that makes him one of us," Violet decided.

"Whatever he is, I'm betting he's really handsome beneath that mask," said Ginny, entering the chamber carrying a try of tea, pumpkin juice and biscuits.

"How can you tell?" wondered Violet.

"Look at his hands," she instructed. 'They're lovely clean – not all rough and stained, but they aren't sickly white and soft neither, the way some people's hands are. So he works with his hands, but then takes time to wash then and file his nails short. That's a prime man that does that."

"I like a man who bathes," Annie agreed. "And brushes his teeth.

'I know some girls won't let a boy kiss them if their mouths are all rotten and stinking," said Ginny. 'They say they're more likely to get diseased from that than from putting' their dicks between their – "

"Here now, that's enough blabber!" interrupted Oliver sternly, appearing suddenly in the doorway. "That's no way to speak when Flynn and Miss Hermione are about."

Flynn shrugged his shoulder. 'I've hear worse."

"It's all right Oliver." Hermione was always touched by Oliver's gruff protectiveness. "Annie, Ginny, and Violet were just talking about the life they knew before coming here. They should feel comfortable talking about it. That's part of healing from the past and moving on from it."

"I'm sorry, Miss Hermione," Ginny apologized, chastened. "Sometime I forget to speak proper when you're about."

"A fine lady like you isn't supposed to know about such things," violet agreed. "It isn't right."

Hermione adjusted the blankets covering the Dark Shadow, who appeared to be sleeping, and said nothing. Years had passed since the ugly, violent part of her early life. Years in which Haydon and Genevieve had lovingly raised her and done their utmost to protect her. But the penchant for malevolent gossip in the aristocratic circles of Scotland and London had made it clear from the beginning that she would never be permitted to escape the sordidness of her beginnings. Even so, she said nothing to contradict Violet's assumption that she was a fine lady.

She mad no secret of her past, she told herself, swallowing thickly. She simply preferred not to discuss it. A sudden banging on the front door interrupted her thoughts.

"That'll be the Aurors, most likely," Oliver said. He regarded her soberly. "You'd best go downstairs, and let them know you're home safe. We'll tell them the Shadow jumped from the car at Waterloo Bridge, and we just made for home as fast as we could"

"What will we do with him if they decide to search the house?" Ginny titled her head at the dozing form of the Dark Shadow.

"I won't let them," said Hermione.

'You may have no choice," Oliver told her. "You listen from the stairs, boy," he instructed Flynn, "and tell the girls if the Aurors are going to search."

"But how will we move him? We're too young to do magic." Violet casted a worried look at the Dark Shadow. "He looks bloody heavy."

'We'll just heave him to the floor and shove him under the bed," Annie decided. "If Ginny climbs onto the mattress and we toss some blankets over her, they'll never know he's there."

"Don't fret lass," Oliver said gently, sensing the fear that was starting to take hold of Hermione. "He took you hostage, remember? You've done nothing wrong, and the Aurors will be pleased to see you're safe. After that, they'll be on their way." He reached out and gave her a hand crushing squeeze.

Hermione managed a small smile. _Get a hold of yourself_, she ordered silently. _You're safe._

'We'll be back in a few minutes," she told Flynn and the girls. Trying hard to affect a calm she didn't feel, she straightened her shoulders and moved awkwardly down the stairs to face the Aurors.

_**So what did you think? R/R **_

_**Thanks**_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. The Main characters belong to JK Rowling and the plot and the rest of the characters belong to Karyn Monk. I only brought the 2 together.**_

"Good evening gentlemen. I am Miss Hermione Granger, and I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

Hermione smiled at the two men standing in the library. The younger man was an Auror, who could not have been on the force overly long, since he looked to be no more than nineteen or twenty. His rain-soaked, ill-fitting uniform caused alarm to flare within her, as it always did when she saw an Auror. Fighting the sensation, she limped past him with as much dignity as she could muster. She could feel his surprise as he observed her labored movement, and knew the exact moment when it turned to a kind of sickened pity.

She inhaled a steadying breath, reminding herself that he could not be blamed for his reaction to her. When she was a young girl Genevieve had suggested she try to ignore the stares of the others, but that had proven to the embarrassed glances of the world, those startled expressions of horror, curiosity, and, at their most brutally honest, revulsion.

"Please, sit down." She gestured to the faded chairs and sofa as she seated herself.

The second man nodded at the young Auror, giving him permission to be seated. Hermione turned her attention to this gentleman, because he was obviously of greater authority than the Auror, and because he was not wearing a uniform and was therefore less intimidating to her. He appeared to be about thirty-seven or so, and she supposed his face was handsome enough, although at that moment it was far too sober to be considered pleasant. He was dressed in a plain brown cloak of fairly good quality, dark pants, and wet, worn shoes – suggesting that his means were adequate but by no means vast, and he was either in the habit of walking a great deal, instead of apparition, or did not think it necessary to waste money on new footwear when there were still a few miles to be squeezed from his current pair.

"Miss Granger, permit me to introduce myself," he began. "I am Inspector Turner, and this is Auror Wilkins. First let me say that I am greatly relieved to find you here – at this moment there are scores of Aurors and concerned citizens searching the streets of London for both you and the Dark Shadow. I realize you have suffered a very difficult ordeal this evening, but I hope you won't mind answering a few questions?"

Hermione shook her head. "I would be pleased to, Inspector Turner."

"How did you manage to escape the Dark Shadow and make it back home?"

"It all happened rather quickly, actually," she replied. "We drove off as fast as we could, because the Dark Shadow ordered Oliver – who is my driver, and butler – to drive away, and, fearing both for my life and his own, he obeyed. After we had been driving for a while, he suddenly said 'Turn here!' and Oliver did, and then he – the Dark Shadow, that it – threw open the door and jumped out, and I told Oliver to just keep driving as fast as he could for home, and that is how we came here."

"I see." Inspector Turner nodded, as if he believed her tale was completely plausible. He always found it best when questioning people to first let them tell their story exactly as they wanted him to hear it. The time for pointing out the inconsistencies came later, 'And where was it, exactly, that he jumped from the car?"

"I – I'm not sure. I think it was somewhere near Charing Cross. Or – no, actually, it was by Waterloo Bridge, and we just kept on."

"And did you happen to see in which direction he was going, after he leapt out?"

"I'm afraid not, Inspector Turner."

He frowned. "You didn't make note of whether he was going north or south? Did he appear to go down to the river, or head for an alley, or dissaperate?"

"I'm sorry – I was rather frightened at the time, and didn't think to look out of the car after him. I was just very relieved that he was gone, and that he hadn't harmed us."

"Of course. Is there anything else you can tell us about what you noticed? Is it possible for you to give us a description?"

"Unfortunately, no. He was wearing a mask?"

"How tall would you judge him to be?"

"I'm not sure. We were seated in the car."

"What about before you were in the car, when he was using you as a shield in Mr. Chadwick's home? Surely you must have some impression of his height."

"Well he was certainly a good deal taller than me, Inspector Turner. Beyond that I'm not sure how to describe –"

"Was he taller than me?" He rose from his chair, trying to give her some measurement for comparison. "Or was he more the height of Wilkins?" He gestured for the Auror to stand as well.

Hermione studied the two men, feeling slightly flustered. She did not want to give them any more information than she was absolutely necessary. "Unfortunately, it was quite dark, and for the greater part of my ordeal he was behind me –"

"I'm only asking for your impression, Miss Granger." Lewis assured her. "Just tell me what you remember."

"I believe he was closer to Auror Wilkin's height."

"He was close to his height, or taller?" He persisted.

Hermione pretended to think a moment, knowing full well that the Dark Shadow was a good deal taller than the Auror. "Close to his height – or perhaps a little taller. I'm sorry, Inspector Turner, that I cannot be more precise."

"Every piece of information is of great help in this investigation, Miss Granger," he assured her." What more can you tell me about him? Can you give me a description of his face?"

"No – he was wearing a mask."

"Did you notice his eye colour?"

"It was dark in the car, but what about when you were coming down the stairs with him in Mr. Chadwick's home and making your way to the front door?" Mr. Chadwick keeps his home relatively well lit, does he not?"

"He – the Dark Shadow – was always behind me, Inspector Turner. As you may recall, he was using me as a shield."

"And there was no moment, throughout the entire duration of your being in his company, in which you had an opportunity to see his eyes?" The lines between his brows deepened a little, suggesting he found this rather unlikely.

"I'm not saying I didn't see them, Inspector Turner. I'm saying it was too dark for me to take note of their colour."

"Did you happen to notice anything else about him? Did he have any distinguishing marks on his hands or wrists, or did he wear a ring of any kind?"

"I'm afraid I don't know – he was wearing gloves."

"What kind of gloves?"

"Dark ones."

"Were they leather? Wool? Cotton?"

"Leather, I believe."

"Expensively made, or second-rate?

"I'm really not sure."

"What about his wand. Can you describe it for me?"

"Actually, I'm afraid not. He kept it concealed in his coat the entire time."

He regarded her skeptically. "Are you certain?"

"Yes – why does this surprise you?"

"Generally, most thieves don't make an effort to conceal their wands once they are found out – unless they are trying to remain anonymous in a crowd, which clearly he was not. Further, a number of witnesses who saw him have said they also saw his wand, which they described as very large with a light-coloured handle. The only thing that varies in their statements is the actual size of the wand, which ranges from approximately nine inches to a foot or more."

"I'm afraid they are mistaken, Inspector turner. I was with him the entire time, and I can assure you that he kept his wand hidden in his coat."

"Even when he killed Mr. Haywood?"

She regarded him with dismay. "Mr. Haywood died?" Although she had seen the poor man sprawled upon the staircase bleeding, she had desperately prayed that he had only been wounded.

"You did see the Dark Shadow shoot him before he forced you into the car, didn't you?"

"The Dark Shadow didn't kill him," she informed him. "Mr. Haywood was killed by someone else."

Inspector Turner kept his expression contained. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I was there – I was right beside him. He never shot at Mr. Haywood. He never shot at anyone."

"Of course he did," Auror Wilkins countered. "Everyone saw him do it."

"They did not see him do it," Hermione retorted, "because he didn't do it."

"Some fifty people have said that they saw the Dark Shadow point his wand directly at Mr. Haywood and kill him," turner argued. "Are you saying that all fifty of those witnesses are lying?"

"I am saying that they are mistaken."

'All fifty of them?"

"It was dark, Inspector Turner, and they were a good distance from him. I was right beside him, and I know without a doubt that he never withdrew his wand from his coat."

"According to my reports, at the time Mr. Haywood was killed, you were actually behind the Dark Shadow – is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Then I fail to see how you could know whether his wand was drawn from his coat at that point or not."

"I know," Hermione insisted.

"How?"

"Because it was still in his coat when he climbed into the car."

"Perhaps he put it back into his coat after he fired the shoot."

"He didn't."

"The witnesses have also said that the Shadow was struck by one of Mr. Haywood's hexes – is that also incorrect?"

"No," she admitted. "He was shot."

"Where?"

"I'm not entirely sure – it was very dark –"

"Of course, you've mentioned that numerous times." His tone remained pleasant, but he allowed her to see that he was finding some elements of her story rather dubious. "If he was able to leap from your car and run off into the night, it would be fair to say it was not a very serious injury, would you agree?"

"I suppose not."

"Could you give me some idea as to where you think he might have been struck?"

"I believe he was struck either in the arm or in the shoulder. I'm not really sure which."

"Left or right arm or shoulder?"

"I believe it was the left."

"Was he bleeding badly?"

"I'm not sure."

"And were you also injured?"

"No, I was not."

"And so I take it, Miss Granger, that the blood on your gown is his?"

Hermione glanced uneasily down at her gown. She had forgotten entirely about the bloodstains she had acquired while helping the Dark Shadow into her house. "Yes." Her mouth suddenly felt dry. "That is his blood."

"If you don't mind my asking, Miss Granger, how is it that you got so much of his blood upon you?"

"I suppose it happened as he was holding me – or maybe in the car – he must have been thrown against me at some point as we raced away."

He regarded her thoughtfully a moment, evaluating everything she had told him. "With your permission, an inspection of your car, to see if there is any more blood there, or any other evidence which might help us solve the mystery of the Shadow's identity."

"Of course. Oliver will be pleased to show it to you."

"And so after the Shadow leapt from your car, your driver drove you home," he continued, picking up the tread of her story. "Approximately what time was it when you arrived?"

"I don't know."

"Well, then, how long would you estimate you have been home?"

"I'm not sure – an hour, perhaps."

"And how far a distance would you sat it is from your home to Waterloo Bridge?"

"I don't know – I suppose it is approximately a fifteen – or twenty-minute drive."

"It is a fifteen- or twenty-minute drive if one is traveling in no great hurry, but you have indicated that you told your driver to drive as fast as he could. How long do you recall it taking before you arrived home?"

"I really don't recall, Inspector Turner," she told him, feeling slightly agitated. "As you can imagine, I was greatly distressed by what I had just been through, Are you almost finished with your questions?"

"I apologize for having to take you through what certainly must have been a terrible ordeal for you, Miss Granger. Now that the Dark Shadow has killed Mr. Haywood, the pressure for the police to find this criminal and see him tried for murder will be enormous. Any piece of information, however slight or insignificant it may seem to you, can only help us to solve this case."

"I'm afraid I cannot think of anything else."

"If I may, miss Granger, I would like to speak with you driver a moment, to ask him what he recalls about the incident."

"Certainly."

"But first, Auror Wilkins and I would like to make an inspection of your house and the surrounding grounds."

Panic streaked up her spine. "Search my house? Why?"

"It's just a formality, really," he assured her. "It's just that one of your neighbours claims to have watched as you arrived home. She said she saw three people disembark from the car – which is perplexing, given that you have indicated that the Shadow left your car near Waterloo Bridge. I just want to be certain he did indeed leave you car, and did not merely get out and then perhaps travel here hanging onto the back of it – without your knowledge of course."

"I'm so sorry, Inspector Turner," Hermione apologized, thinking quickly. 'In all the excitement, I forgot to mention that Flynn was with us."

"Who is Flynn?"

"He is a young boy who is staying with me. As you may be aware, this is a refuge house for unfortunate women and children who are trying to escape the harshness of their past and make a better life for themselves. Flynn had come along with Oliver for the ride- he likes to go out driving at night, and he is good company for Oliver while I am visiting. Whoever saw the three of us must have seen me, Oliver, and Flynn get out of the car and go into the house."

"That is most likely the case," he agreed. "Nevertheless, I'm sure you won't object if Auror Wilkins and I make a quick search, just to ensure your safety. I promise we won't disturb your household for long." Without waiting for her permission he rose and strode down the stairs to the dining room with Auror Wilkins following.

"I can assure you that is entirely unnecessary." Hermione limped after them as best she could. "Why on earth would the Dark Shadow want to come here?" She raised her voice slightly as she added, "There are no jewels of any value in this house." Oliver was nowhere to be seen, which Hermione desperately hoped meant that he had gone upstairs to help Flynn and the girls hide their guest.

"If he were here, it would not be with the intention of stealing." Turner went into the main floor study, appraised it for a moment, then walked to and headed for the stairs leading down to the kitchen. "Because of the amount of time you spent with him this evening, it is possible he may have sensed your generous nature. If it turns out that his wounds are severe, he may try to appeal to you for help. It would not be the first time a criminal has sought assistance from one of his victims. Sometimes they mistake their victims' frightened compliance for a kind of empathy."

"After you are gone, Inspector Turner, I shall see to it that all the doors and windows are locked and charmed for the night, and I will instruct everyone not to answer the door."

"That would be wise. However, as we know the Dark Shadow is adept at breaking into homes. Auror Wilkins and I will make certain he isn't here before you lock up." He went into the kitchen, where Eunice and Doreen were busily working. 'Good evening, ladies."

"Eunice and Doreen, this is Inspector Turner and Auror Wilkins," said Hermione. "They are conducting a search of the house, to ensure that the Shadow didn't decide to follow me here and perhaps break in."

"That's a fine idea," Eunice said, calmly drying a plate. "'Twas a terrible thing you suffered tonight. If the Aurors here can make you feel a little bit safer, I'm sure we'll all sleep sounder for it."

Doreen poked violently at the flames burning brightly within the stove. "'Tis bad enough the streets are crawling with vermin, but it's a sad state when you cannot feel safe even in your own home. That's the way of things today, Inspector Turner, isn't it?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Turner poked his head into the pantry. He then turned his gaze to Doreen and frowned. "If you don't mind my asking, why have you got the stove burning so hot at this late hour?"

"Me and Eunice like to do some cooking in the evening, when Miss Granger is out," Doreen explained.

"But you're finished now, are you not?" he enquired, approaching the stove.

"Yes – but with all the fuss going on tonight, neither of us could go to bed, and when I saw how lovely and hot the coals were, I know they were perfect for burning some old rags." She pushed the fragment of the Dark Shadow' bloodstained shirt into the orange embers, then banged the iron burner plate back into place. "There now, mind you don't get to close – you don't want to scorch that handsome coat of yours."

"Will you take some tea while you're here, Inspector Turner?" offered Eunice sweetly. "I've just made a fresh pot, and there are warm ginger biscuits to go with it."

"No thank you."

"How about you Auror Wilkins?" Eunice held the plate of fragrant biscuits up to Auror Wilkins. "They're lovely an crisp –"

"We don't have time for refreshments," Turner said firmly.

Auror Wilkins regarded the plate mournfully.

"Did either of you ladies see or hear anything unusual after Miss Granger returned home?" Turner asked. "Any strange noise in the house, for instance?"

"No more strange that usual," said Doreen. "With the girls and young Flynn traipsing about, there's always some clamoring somewhere."

"I see. And where might they be."

"At this hour they're most probably in bed," Eunice told him.

"Thank you. Please don't feel you need to accompany me, Miss Granger," he told Hermione. "Auror Wilkins and I can manage on our own."

"I appreciate that, Inspector Turner." Hermione fought to remain calm as she laboriously started up the stairs in front of him. "It's just that the girls staying here might feel a little unnerved b your presence, and particularly that of Auror Wilkins. I want to be there to reassure them."

"As you wish."

He made a quick perusal of the bedrooms that belonged to Hermione, Eunice, Doreen and Oliver. Finding nothing amiss, he proceeded to the top floor.

"Don't be frightened, violet," Hermione soothed when she saw the young girl peering at them from behind her bedroom door. "This is Inspector turner and Auror Wilkins. They are just taking a look at the house to make sure we are safe."

Violet eyed the two men in wary silence. Turner speculated the poor girl had learned long ago that when it came to Aurors, the less one spoke the better.

"Who is in there?" he demanded, indicating the closed door of the room in which Hermione had left the Dark Shadow.

"That's Ginny's chamber," Hermione told him.

"She's sleeping." Flynn rubbed his eyes as he emerged from his own tiny room.

"Unfortunately, Miss Granger, we shall have to waken her."

"I understand, Inspector." Hermione went over to the door and rapped firmly upon it. "Ginny? It's Miss Granger. I'm sorry to disturb you, but there is a detective and an Auror here and they need to take a quick look inside your room. Is that all right?"

"I'm not decent," Ginny mumbled sleepily. "Give me a minute."

Turner waited impatiently, listening to the sounds of a bed creaking, a wardrobe door being opened and shut and then a most unladylike oath as some part of Ginny's body thudded against something hard. Finally, the door opened and she appeared, looking grumpy and disheveled, with her brilliant red hair spilling wildly over the rumpled blanket she had retrieved to drape around herself.

"I ain't done anything," she spat defensively at Auror Wilkins.

"The Auror's aren't here for you, Ginny," Hermione explained. "They are looking for any sign that the Dark Shadow may have tried to break into the house."

Ginny yawned and scratched herself. "He isn't in here."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to take a look for myself. Wilkins, you go check the boy's room." Turner walked into the dark room, pushing the door wide until it was softly bathed in the light spilling from the oil lamps in the corridor.

Hermione watched nervously as he stood in the center of the room. For what seemed an eternity he did not move, but merely stood there, his eyes searching. He studied the tousled bedclothes upon the narrow bed, the empty glass upon the dressing table, the slightly ajar door of the wardrobe. Although Hermione didn't think there was anything unusual there; she sensed that something about the chamber bothered him. He stood almost frozen, waiting. And then it occurred to Hermione that he was not merely looking.

He was listening.

_Please Merlin_, she prayed fervently, wondering what she would do when he looked beneath the tent of artfully draped blankets the girls had arranged over the bed. _Please make him turn around and come out._

Instead, Turner moved toward the bed, slowly, like a cat inching its way toward a wounded bird. He studied the pillow a moment, assessing the size of the hollow pressed into its feathery depths, and looking to see if there were any hairs against its pale linen other than Ginny's brilliant red ones.

They had underestimated him, Hermione realized, feeling as if she was going to be sick. Auror Wilkins might have been easy to fool or distract, but the Inspector's instincts were far more keenly honed. Something was suspicious to him, whether it was a scent in the air, some barely visible thread or hair upon the carpet or linens, or all but the imperceptible pulse of the Dark Shadow's breathing.

Turner grasped the edge of the blankets suddenly and whipped them up.

And looked in stunned surprise at the emptiness beneath the bed.

"I told you he isn't here," Ginny said.

He glared around the room, angry now, convinced that he had been deceived. He strode to the wardrobe and threw the doors open. There was nothing inside but a couple of shabby gowns and an old pair of boots.

"I didn't find anything in the boy's room," Auror Wilkins reported as he entered. "Do you want me to look in the –"

"Silence!" Turner commanded.

The sound of a car door slamming shut caught his attention. By the time he crossed the room and leaned out the small window, the vehicle was already speeding away.

"Stop!" he shouted. "Come back!"

The car rounded a corner and disappeared.

Cursing, he ran from the room and down the stairs, with a startled Auror Wilkins at his heels. As they reached the landing for the second floor they nearly collided with Oliver, who was shuffling up bearing an enormous tea tray.

"Here now, lads, what's amiss?"

"Get out of my way, you old fool!" Turner snapped. "I'm after the Dark Shadow!"

"Are you now?" Oliver marveled, suitably impressed. "Funny, I don't see him – but no matter, let me help you with the door." He turned with his tray and began to slowly trudge down the stairs, still obstructing their path.

"I don't need your help with the bloody door!"

"All right, then, no need to get cross," Oliver scolded. "I'm not as young as I used to be, and when you get to be my age you'll find it's not as easy for you either."

Turner barely heard him as he heaved open the front door and burst out onto the street.

"Where was he going?" he demanded, seeing a woman standing outside gazing forlornly after the car. "Did you hear what directions he gave the driver?"

"He's off to the rose and Crown most like, or maybe the Rats' Castle is St. Giles- and when you find him, I want you to tell him I hope he rots in hell!" Annie's face trembling with rage. "He isn't anything but a filthy brute, and I'll be glad when you arrest him for beating on women!"

Turner looked at her in confusion. "He beat you?"

"He'll tell you I was asking for it – well, I'm telling you I didn't ask for it, and while I may live with him now and again, I'm not his wife, and now that I'm staying with Miss Granger he doesn't have a right to beat me and I want him charged with attempted murder!"

"You live with the Dark Shadow?" Auror Wilkins, who had finally managed to make it past Oliver, looked utterly astonished.

Annie stared at him incredulously. "You think my Jimmy is the Dark Shadow?" She exploded with laughter.

"Who was in that car?" demanded Turner.

'That was my Jimmy," she managed, nearly breathless with hilarity. "Black jimmy they call him, an account of his black temper, and I've the marks to prove it – but Jimmy isn't no Dark Shadow! If he was, he'd be drinking in some gin palace in Oxford Street, not choking on the piss they pour at the Rats' Castle!"

"Is everything all right, Annie?" Hermione had donned a cloak to protect her from the rain and was now making her way down the front steps. "Oh my, what happened to your face?"

"My Jimmy hit me," she told her honestly, "and I know you told me he was no good and I shouldn't see him anymore, but he came here tonight and said I had to go back with him and when I told him no, he punched me, but these Aurors here are going to arrest him now, and make sure he learns the law says he can't just pitch into me whenever he likes." She looked at Turner expectantly.

"Actually we are presently working on another case," he told her, infuriated by the fact that he had already wasted so much time there.

"You men are all the same," Annie observed acidly. "You talk the high and mighty when it suits you, but deep down you all believe we women are good for nothing but bedding and beating – especially a poor girl like me."

Turner clenched his jaw, frustrated. What the hell did she expect him to do? He wondered angrily. Head down to some criminal-infested den in St. Giles and try to arrest every man who has ever laid a hand of his wife or girlfriend? The cells of Azkaban would be overflowing before the hour was out. Even so, he felt strangely awkward as he stared into Annie's pretty, battered face. The thought of some filthy bastard using the girl for his pleasure and then beating her filled him with impotent fury.

"I can assure you that isn't true," he told her.

Annie snorted contemptuously. "Course it is."

"Come inside out of the rain, Annie, and let's get you warm and dry and see to the eyes of yours." Hermione wrapped a protective arm around her. "I believe Inspector Turner and Auror Wilkins are finished with their questions." She regarded him coolly, letting him know that she disapproved of his apparent lack of interest in what had befallen poor Annie. "Is there anything further you require, Inspector?"

"I just wanted to have a word with your coachman, and take a look at your car."

"I'll have Oliver meet you around the back so he can show you the car, and answer any further questions you may have."

"Thank you, Miss Granger. My apologies for disturbing you. Good night.'

Hermione's heart was pounding anxiously as she shepherded Annie back into the house. Once the door was closed behind her and she was certain Inspector Turner and Auror Wilkins were headed to the stable, she regarded her household of former thieves and prostitutes in confusion.

"Where is he?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"He's gone," Oliver told her, cramming an old battered hat on his head as he prepared to go outside to meet the Inspector and Auror Wilkins.

"Once we knew the Auror's were fixing to search the house, we had to get him out of here right quick," Ginny explained. "So while they was dawdling in the kitchen and such, we woke the Shadow, threw a shirt and coat on him, plopped a hat on his head, and dragged him down the back stairs."

"Then we heaved him in a car and paid the driver to take him wherever he wanted to go," added Violet.

Flynn nodded. "He was awakening by then, and knew what was about."

"I told him I didn't need to know where he was headed, but said he should take his mask off before he got there, so the driver wouldn't take notice of him," Oliver continued.

"We were hoping he'd get away nice and quiet, but I stayed out and pretended it was my Jimmy who left when the Aurors saw the car leaving." Annie shook her head with irritation. "That one Auror got a bit touchy when I told him he was just like all the others, but I knew he'd never actually try to find Jimmy. None of them care what a whore gets beating, and that's the hard truth of it."

"You aren't a whore anymore, Annie," Hermione reminded her. "And if Jimmy or anyone else ever lays a hand on you again, I shall insist that the Aurors find them and lay charges."

"You're most kind, Miss Granger." Annie smiled fondly at her. "But the Aurors don't care about what happens to a girl like me."

"Well, we care about you," Eunice informed her flatly.

"Yes, and I've told you if Jimmy dares to show his face around here, I'm putting my boot to his ass and making sure he doesn't come after you again," added Doreen.

"Come on then," she continued, turning her attention to Hermione. "You look as if you're about to fall over. Let's get you into your bed."

"Don't worry about the Aurors," Oliver added heading toward the door. "I'll show them the car and send them on their way."

"Thank you, Oliver." The throbbing in Hermione's leg told her she had been walking and standing for far too long. "I suppose there's nothing more we can do for now."

"Let me help you upstairs," said Doreen.

No, thank you, Doreen. I can manage. Good night, everyone."

She limped slowly up the stairs. After entering her room she closed the door, the collapsed wearily onto the bed, heedless of the blood on her evening gown or the uncomfortable constriction of her corset. She had not wanted any of them to know how exhausted she was, or how profound an effect Inspector Turner's interrogation had had upon her. She inhaled a shallow breath and rolled onto her side, fighting to endure the pain now streaking from her tight to her toes.

Thanks to the efforts of her fiercely loyal household, the Dark Shadow had made it safely out of her home. With luck, he would make it back to wherever it was he lived that night. If he decided to reform his ways and stop stealing, he might even avoid being found and arrested for the murder of Mr. Haywood. Her efforts to help him had been successful.

She closed her eyes; confused by the powerful sense of loss that had gripped her on learning the Dark Shadow was gone.

_**So what did you think? R/R **_

_**Thanks**_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Sod it, Archie, I'm starving. Can we go now?" The woman glared sulkily at the enormous man beside her.

"Shut your bloody mouth, Sal, unless you want to feel my fist in it," Archie warned. "I'll tell you when it's time to go."

"We've been here all night," al pointed out, too cross and tired to be intimidated by his threat. "I'm hungry and I need to take a piss."

"Then piss," he said, glowering. "Who the hell is stopping you?"

"What – right here on the street?"

"Why not? It's cleaner than the privies or pots you're used to."

"I ain't pissing on no street," she informed him tartly. "It ain't proper."

A bark of laughter escaped him. "Oh, so you're all high and proper now, are you? For a bit of brass you'd piss in a church in front of Jesus Christ himself, and you know it."

"Archie!" Sal smacked his shoulder. "Don't talk blasphemy!"

"If you're suddenly shy, go behind one of them houses," he suggested, weary of her constant complaining. "No one will see you if you're quick."

"And what if someone catches me and yells for the cops or the Aurors?" she demanded. "Then what?"

"Then I guess you'll be sleeping in a cell tonight." He shrugged.

"Would you come after me?'

"What for?"

"To try and get me out!"

"Why? You'd only be in a night or two. You've stayed longer."

"And after the last time I made up my mind I ain't going back."

"Fine, then – don't piss. Just quit your squawking – I'm sick of listening to you."

Sally crossed her arms defiantly over her ample breasts and squeezed her thighs together, trying to quell the mounting pressure in her bladder. "What are we waiting for here, anyway?" she demanded sourly. "She ain't going nowhere today not after what happened last night. Why don't we just come back tomorrow?"

"Why don't you shut up, Sal, before I break your bloody jaw"

"Fuck you, Archie." She turned and began to march furiously down the street.

Archie rolled his eyes. He knew he had gone too far. "Sal," he called, his voice low and irritated. "Sal!"

She stopped and regarded him defiantly. "What?"

"Come back."

"Why?'

"Because I want you to."

"Well, maybe I don't want to. Did you ever think of that?"

"Fine then," he snarled, sick of her mood. "Bugger off, then."

She glared at him, pretending to debate whether or not he was worth returning to. Finally she gave a mighty huff, annoyed by the feelings that kept dragging her back to him. Somewhere deep down, in a place he was afraid for her to see, Archie Buchan actually cared for her, she told herself fiercely. He wasn't rich or handsome, but he was strong and smart and good with his fists, which made him a good protector – at least when he wasn't throwing punches her way. Most of all, he was hers.

With nothing else to call her own, that had to be enough.

"I ain't staying long," she informed him as she walked back. "Just a few more minutes, and the I'm off to find some tea and a privy."

Archie kept his gaze on the modest little house across the street and said nothing. He didn't really give a damn whether Sal waited with him or not. He had just wanted to see how long it would take for her to back down. If she hadn't been smart and returned right quick, he'd have made her sorry for it later. That was the way of it with women, he'd learned.

You had to make them sorry, or they'd never show you any respect.

"you can go when you like," he told her. "Just bring me a meet and some ale when you come back."

"How long are you going to stay them?"

He shrugged. "Till I leave."

"but what are you waiting for?" she persisted, trying to understand. "Now that you know where she lives, why don't you just squeeze her for a few Sickle and be done with it.

"That's what's wrong you with, Sal- ye think too small. Do you honestly think she's only worth a few Sickle?

"She ain't rich, that's for sure," Sal returned, scratching under her armpit. "Her house ain't much, and her tog ain't fancy. Even last night when she went to that swell's house. I didn't see any jewels on her."

"There's more than a few Sickle in her, Sal," Archie assured her. "she may live with whores and thieves, but she's the ward of a bloody Duke." His expression dark as he finished softly, "I ain't about to let her get by for just a few goddamn Sickle."

Pain pierced her senses long before the sunlight did. It stole up her leg slowly, almost delicately, like a spider creeping along the stem of a flower. It paused a moment at her knee, weaving its intricate web of throbbing through the stiff joint, then proceeded up her thigh, silently rousing the nerves from their dormant state. The pain began to intensify, swiftly now, coursing through flesh and bone, tightening and twisting the muscles until they began to spasm in protest. Hermione gasped suddenly and sat up, fighting the urge to cry out as she grabbed her calf and began to desperately knead the tightly braided muscles.

_Please, please, please_, she chanted silently, her teeth clenched together and her brow shimmering with sweat as she struggled to break the cramp that had seized her. Her hands moved desperately over the battered, misshapen limb, squeezing and pressing, trying to pummel the treacherous muscles back into their previous state. She knew she should get up and try to walk upon it, or grab her toes and pull them back in attempt to stretch the contracted muscles, but the pain was too over-whelming for her to find the courage to risk even more. _Please, please_, she continued desperately, focusing on the word, trying to draw strength from the possibility that God might actually be listening. There were tears in her eyes now, of pain and desperation and the terrible helplessness that gripped her whenever she found herself in this hideous state. _Please,_ she wept, the word falling from her lips in a small, broken whisper, a promise and a plea, for in that moment she would have vowed almost anything in exchange for relief.

Gradually, the cramp began to lessen.

She continued to massage her aching leg, knowing hat if she quit too soon, the spasm would find the strength to attack once more. Little by little it eased its terrible grip upon her, until finally she was able to whimper and fall back against the mattress, her chest heaving, her cheeks wet with tears.

"Miss Granger?" Annie called hesitantly through the door. "Are you all right?"

Brushing her hands against her face, Hermione sat up. "I'm fine, Annie."

Annie remained in the hallway, unconvinced. "Can I come in, then?"

Hermione was dismayed to see that she was still wearing her bloodstained gown from the previous night. "Just a minute." She limped over to her wardrobe, retrieved a simple dressing gown, and hastily covered herself. Then she went to the door and opened it. "Good morning, Annie. Is everything all right?"

"I thought I heard crying." Annie regarded her curiously, taking in the pale sheen of her skin and the telltale droplets upon her lashes. "Are you sick?"

"No." Hermione managed a small, forced smile. "I'm fine, Annie. What about you – is your eye paining you today?"

"Not much. Eunice's lotion did a good job of keeping the swelling down, and that apple much of hers kept it from getting too blue." She looked past Hermione into the room. "Did you sleep on your bed last night?"

Hermione glanced over at the rumpled bed. "I was so tired after everything that happened last night, I thought I'd lie down fro a minute, and instead fell sound –"

"Where is she Oliver?" demanded a worried voice from the main floor. "Hermione!"

"I'm here, Lavender." Hermione could hear concern in her sister's voice. "In my room – come on upstairs."

A small army of feet raced up the narrow staircase and four of Hermione's five siblings charged into her bedchamber.

"Oh, Hermione," burst out Lavender, "thank goodness you're here!"

Annie stared in fascination at the beautiful young woman who rushed over and threw her arms around Hermione. Her features were remarkably lovely, and although her pale blond hair was falling down from beneath an elegant green and ivory hat,, its disarray could not detract from its magnificent thickness and shine.

"We heard that you were abducted by the Dark Shadow last night – are you all right?" A second young woman also wrapped her arms protectively around Hermione. She struck Annie as unusually pretty as well, with enormous dark eyes and coffee-coloured hair that had been hurriedly pinned into place.

"I'm fine Pavarti," Hermione assured her, drawing comfort from the hugs of her sisters. "Really."

"Are you certain?" A handsome young man with red hair and blue eyes regarded her doubtfully.

"Yes, Ron."

"Is that blood on your dress?" With his raven black waves and earnest expression the other man struck Annie as younger than the rest – perhaps as old as twenty-two, but no more. Annie liked his sweetly unsophisticated air.

Hermione self-consciously closed the neckline of her dressing gown, trying to hide the bloodstained gown underneath.

"Yes, Harry, but it isn't mine – it's from the Dark Shadow. Everyone, this is Miss Clarke," she continued, indicating Annie. 'Annie, let me introduce you to my sisters and brothers: Lavender, Mrs. Harding; Pavarti, Mrs Maitland; Mr Ron Weasly, and Mr. Harry Potter."

"You don't look anything alike," Annie observed candidly.

Pavarti laughed. 'You're right, we don't."

"But we are alike in many other ways," Lavender assured her.

Annie regarded her doubtfully, nothing her elegant hat, expensively tailored dress, and glossy pearls. Hermione did not exhibit even a fraction of the confidence or poise that her two sisters possessed.

"You look awful, Hermione," Harry announced, laying his hands against her forehead. "Pale and drawn, and your skin is cold. Have you eaten anything today?"

I'm fine Harry, just a little tired. Harry is studying medicine at Edinburgh University," she explained to Annie, smiling. "Which means he likes to practice being a doctor with everyone he meets."

"It's good to have a doctor in the family." Annie nodded with approval. "You never know when someone's going to snuff it.

"Hopefully, once I've graduated, I'll be able to keep some people from snuffing it," Harry joked.

"However did you manage to escape the Dark Shadow?" asked Lavender, still holding fast to her sister.

"I didn't actually," Hermione admitted. "I was trying to help him get away and then he was shot by Mr. Haywood, and so we came here. Eunice and Doreen healed his wound, then everyone worked together to sneak him out of the house as the Aurors were searching for him."

"You helped him escape after he shot poor Mr. Haywood?" Pavarti regarded her in astonishment. "Why?"

"Because he didn't shoot Mr. Haywood. He only ha Mr Chadwick's jewels in his pocket. He never hurt anyone."

"The newspaper said he tried to strangle you, then dragged you down the stair against your will, using you as a shield," Ron informed her.

Hermione regarded him in dismay. "It's in the news papers?"

"Of course – it's on the front page of this morning's _Daily Prophet_."

"When they were printing it last night on one realized you had returned home safely, so the headline read: _Dark Shadow Murders Mr Haywood, Abducts Mr Redmond's Ward_. We were all horrified when Beaton brought it to us this morning.

"Do you all live together, then?" asked Annie curiously.

"Pavarti and I are both married and live in Scotland, but we come to London for a visit in the summer every year," Lavender explained. "While we're here we usually stay together at our parents' home."

"And since I'm on break from my studies at the moment, I convinced Ron that we should go with them, so we could see how Hermione was making out with her new refuge house," Harry added.

"This dreadful attention is sure to hurt us," Hermione lamented. "It's been hard enough to get people to donate their money to keep the house going."

Annie frowned. "But you're rich, aren't you? I mean, what with your father being a marquees and all."

"My parents have some wealth," Hermione allowed, "And they have been extremely generous in helping me set up this house. They paid for the lease and gave me money to buy furnishings, but I assured them that I could raise the funds to run it myself, so I wouldn't forever be relying on their charity. I thought if I could just make the wealthy aware of the terrible suffering of London's magical poor women and children, they would gladly want to help them."

"Then you found out most rich folk would flay a flea from his skin," Eunice observed contemptuously, entering the room bearing an enormous try of tea, cheese and biscuits.

"They don't mind spending on themselves," Doreen snorted, carrying another try filled with cups and saucers. "It's only when it comes to others that they suddenly can't recall where they put their wallets."

"Never mind, there's a good fish in the sea as ever come out of it," Oliver finished philosophically. "We just need to get your net out more."

"I had hoped to get some support at Mr Chadwick's dinner last night," Hermione reflected. "I thought it would be a good opportunity to talk about the work we are doing here, and entice people to donate their money. Unfortunately, I never got the chance."

"Maybe you got something better out of it then just a couple of donations," Lavender mused. "After all, last night most of the Magical community had no idea who you are."

"You're right, Lavender," agreed Pavarti. "After reading the papers this morning almost everyone in the community knows that Miss Hermione Granger was abducted last night by the infamous Dark Shadow."

"And until this evening's papers are printed, everyone will be speculating whether you're going to be found alive or dead," added Ron, helping himself to one of Eunice's biscuits. "You're a celebrity."

"Not just to the rich, neither," Annie pointed out. "My friends can't read but they can sure talk, and nothing takes their fancy better than a good sneak job or murder."

"I don't see how my sudden celebrity is going to help us." Hermione disliked intensely the idea that so much attention was suddenly upon her. "Society doesn't like to hear about the problems of the poor, unless you're asking them to give to something safe and respectable and established, like a hospital. When I asked people to make a donation so I can help unfortunate women and children get off the streets and make a new life, they lecture me on how these women and children are born lacking morality, and say I shouldn't be associating with such people."

'It's them that you shouldn't be associating with," Eunice huffed angrily.

"I know those swells." Annie's cheeks were flushed with indignation. "All high and mighty in their fine traps, looking down at you like you was some nasty bug that crawled out from under a rock – but give them half a chance and they are more than willing to grab a feel or have a snatch-"

"Here now!" Oliver scowled, but his voice was gentle as he reminded her, "That's no way to be talking."

Annie sighed. "Beg your pardon- I forgot."

"you just have to keep asking them Hermione," Lavender told her. "Keep asking, until finally they are too ashamed to keep refusing you."

"But most of them never give me the chance to ask. I sent more than two dozen letters last month asking a number of wealthy people for a meeting so I could tell them about my house, and so far all of them have eluded my request. They claim to be too busy to see me."

'Which is why you have to get out and attend a few balls and parties," Pavarti suggested. "Get them to commit some funds while they are surrounded by other and don't want to appear stingy or unsympathetic to the problems of the poor."

Hook them when they are a bit drunk," Oliver advised. "That's when they'll be dipping into their pockets."

Hermione sighed. "I don't really like going to parties. I only went to Mr and Mrs Chadwick's house or dinner because Mrs Chadwick had promised Haydon and Genevieve that they would have me over occasionally while I'm in London. I was concerned they might be insulted if I refused their invitation."

"I know you don't care much for those affairs, Hermione." Pavarti regarded her sympathetically. 'But if you really care about this house and providing help to those who need it, and you don't want to keep going to Genevieve and Haydon for money, I'm afraid you're going to have to overcome your distaste for them."

"and tomorrow night is the perfect time to start," Lavender decided. Mr and Mrs Marston are throwing their spectacular annual summer ball, which is sure to be one of the grandest affairs of the season. Didn't you receive an invitation? They always make a point of sending one to all of us."

"I sent them a note telling them I wouldn't be attending," Hermione told her. "I know the only invite me out of respect for Haydon. They don't really want me to go."

"Well, you are going to attend," Lavender stated. "And you needn't be afraid, because Harry, Ron, Pavarti and I will all be going with you. It will be fun," she insisted, seeing a look of despair cloud her sister's face. "Everyone will be thrilled to see that you are safe and well."

"I'm sure they will all want to talk to you, to find out how you escaped the Dark Shadow," Pavarti added.

"And while they're crowding about, you can talk about your house and ask them to donate money," Harry finished. "All you have to do is get one person to commit, and the others will follow, just so they won't appear tightfisted. You'll see."

Hermione shook her head. 'I can't go, Lavender."

"Why not?"

_Because I hate everyone staring at me_, she thought desperately. _Because I'm not charming or beautiful or happy like other women will be. Because everyone will pretend not to look at me when I limp across the room, but I'll know that they are. Because if I stand for too long my leg will throb and go into spasm, but if I sit down everyone will whisper that I'm a cripple. Because I can't bear their pity. And I can't bear their contempt. It weakens me too much, and I can't afford to be weak._

"I haven't anything to wear."

Lavender laughed. "That doesn't matter. Between Pavarti's gowns and mine, I'm sure we can find something wonderful for you to wear.'

"They won't fit me," Hermione protested. "I'm smaller than both of you."

"Not by much," countered Doreen. "With a little nip here and tuck there, Eunice and me can have any gown looking like it was made for you."

"I don't have any evening shoes,' Hermione added. Why couldn't they just see she couldn't go? "The ones I wore last night were ruined in the rain, and I haven't any other."

"But you have time to buy new ones," Annie pointed out, excited by the prospect of Hermione attending an actual ball. "The shop windows are full of lovely shoes – you could get something really nice."

"Annie is right," Ron agreed. "And don't worry about the cost – you know Haydon and Genevieve are very happy to pay for your personal effects."

'Why don't you get dresses, and then we'll get Oliver to drive us over to Diagon Alley and we'll buy you some shoes. Then we'll go back to the house and you can try on a few gowns, to see which one you like best."

"I can't go, Lavender." Hermione's voice was small as she quietly admitted, "I don't want all those people staring at me."

"What's this?" demanded Oliver, frowning. "Is this the young women who faced the Dark Shadow just last night, and brought him down in front of the mob?"

"The young women who helped him walk when he was all weak and bleeding?" Doreen added.

"The young women who faced both an Auror and an inspector as cool as you please, without given either of them a hint of who was lying in bed just above their heads?" finished Eunice.

Oliver reached out and squeezed her hand. "Seems to me if you're strong enough for that, then you're strong enough to blabber with a few rich wizards at a party."

"You don't have to stay long, Hermione," Harry assured her. "Just tell us when you want to leave and we'll take you home. I promise.

"Then you can tell me and Ginny and Violet all about it," said Annie eagerly. "I'm sure it'll be prime."

Hermione was sure it wouldn't be prime at all – at least not for her. But there was no denying that it would be a good opportunity for her to try to elicit donations.

"Very well," she said, fighting the dread tightening her chest. "I'll go."

Draco buried his face into the carpet and groaned.

A trickle of sunlight had slipped through the crack between the heavy velvet draperies and was spilling onto his face. He squeezed his eyes tight and shifted away from it, his mind too clouded to judge if he was ready to tolerate it. _Slowly_, he reminded himself, inhaling a shallow, steady breath. He waited a moment, trying to assess the level of pain in his head. He felt weary and his brain was foggy, but experience had taught him that was probably just the after-effects of the laudanum. No more headache, he decided. Relieved he rolled onto his side.

And swore fiercely at the explosion of pain in his shoulder.

He eased himself up off his bedroom floor, dazed and confused. The moment he saw the worn fabric of the cheaply tailored coat he was wearing, his fragmented memory began to fall into place. He shrugged out of the garment and opened the shirt he wore beneath, and then stared in bewilderment at the scare on his shoulder. A milky image of two elderly Scottish women came to his mind. There had been others there, too, he realized, struggling to remember. A few pretty young girls with rough speech. An old man. A young boy.

And a strangely attractive young woman who had done her best to protect him after she stumbled upon him in Mrs Chadwick's room.

"Draco are you up yet?"

Draco hastily closed his shirt and threw one the coat again, covering his injury. "Come in, Blaise."

The door opened and a lean, raven-haired young man rushed excitedly into the gloom of the room, carrying a newspaper.

"Have you heard? The Dark Shadow has struck again, only this time he's gone and killed Mr Haywood."

"My apologies, sir," managed Draco's house elf, hurrying breathlessly into the room. "I told Mr Zambini you were not yet available to receive visitors, but he was most insistent that he see you immediately, and raced up the stairs before I could-"

"That's all right, Telford," Draco managed. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. "Thank you."

"There, Telford, you see? I told you Draco wouldn't mind." Blaise regarded the hapless house elf with amusement. Telford shot him a disapproving look and disappear. "Shot him clean in the chest, poor bastard," Blaise continued excitedly, shifting his attention back to Draco, "then left him the bleed to death while he made off with some terrified young girl – and no on knows what's become of her. Merlin, Draco, you look bloody awful," he remarked, frowning. "What the hell were you up to last night?"

"Not much." Draco staggered to the washstand and splashed some cold water on his face.

"Did you go out?"

"I went to the club for a while. Had a drink."

"By the look of you this morning, I'd say it was more than one," Blaise observed wryly.

Draco shrugged, then clenched his jaw as his wounded should throbbed in protest. "What brings you here this morning, Blaise?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Don't you remember? We're having lunch today. You told me to met you here at eleven o'clock." He regarded Draco curiously. "You do remember, Draco, don't you?"

Draco was careful to keep his expression bland. In fact he had no memory whatsoever of arranging to have lunch with Blaise. _Yet another incident_, he realized, fighting the sick sensation uncoiling within him. This was how it began. An inability to recall small, ordinary things, like agreeing to have lunch with a friend, or where he left a book he was reading, or the name of someone he had just met the previous week. Each incident on its own easily dismissed as nothing, or the fact that he had too much on his mind, or that he had been suffering too many headaches lately. But strung together into a chain, they pointed to something quite different.

A dull pounding sensation began to creep up the back of his skull, warning him another headach could be imminent.

"Of course I remember," he lied.

"Good." Blaise smiled. "Why don't I leave you to get dressed, then, and I'll meet you in your study downstairs?"

"Meet me in the library. My study is a mess."

"I don't mind," Blaise assured him cheerfully. "I'm more comfortable amidst disorder."

"The library is better, Blaise," Draco asserted, a little more forcefully. "I'd prefer if you waited for me there."

Blaise cast him an exasperated look. "Fine, Draco, I'll go wait in your bloody stuffy library. Just don't take too long – I'm anxious to get to your club and find out if anyone has heard anything more about the Dark shadow, or if Mr Redmond's ward has turned up yet."

"Who?"

"The girl the Shadow abducted," Blaise explained. "She's one of those urchins Mr Redmond took on when he married his wife years ago. Of course she's grown up now, but she's a cripple so Redmond hasn't been able to marry her off – not that she's make much of a match, given her background. Apparently she came to London last year to set up some sort of refuge house for whores and urchins."

Another image pierced the veil obscuring his memory. The face of a pretty girl staring down at him with concern, her enormous eyes shadowed with fear and something more, an emotion Draco could not readily identify.

"Well, they hadn't at the time they printed this paper, but that was lat night," Blaise allowed. "Once we get to the club, we should be able to find out if she has turned up – alive or dead."

"It's highly unlikely that she'll be dead. The Dark Shadow is a jewel thief, not a murderer."

"That changed last night, I'm afraid. Once he shot Mr Haywood he became a murderer, which means the authorities will have to intensify their efforts to find him. If he kills Redmond's ward, they'll be under even greater pressure to bring him to justice. The shadow's days are numbered now, mark my words. I'll see you downstairs, Draco," he finished, tucking his newspaper under his arm. "Don't be long."

Draco waited until the door had closed behind Blaise. Only then did he raise his hands to his head and squeeze.

He would not take any more laudanum. He had to keep his mind sharp. He wouldn't have any wine with his lunch, either, so he could be alert to what everyone was saying about the Dark Shadow. If he was to avoid being captured, he needed to remember what they knew. And he could remember, he told himself adamantly.

He shoved the memory of his father away, focused on overcoming the pain looming in his head.

_I will not give into you_, he vowed harshly. _I will not_.

"There now," said Lavender, breathless as she piled three more packages into Oliver's quivering arms."That's seven pairs of evening shoes, four shawls, and a half dozen new pairs of gloves. All we need now are some stockings, and undergarments, and we can go home and have Hermione try on some gowns."

"Why don't you take all these things back to the car, Oliver," Pavarti suggested, "and then meet us up at the end of the street? That way we can go into a few more shops along the way without you constantly trying to find a good place to stop the car."

Oliver peered over the mountain of boxes heaped in his arms at Hermione. "Are you fit to walk a bit more?" he asked, concerned. "Or would you like to leave your sisters to finish and come back to the car?"

"I'm fine Oliver."

In fact her leg was stiff and aching, but she was not about to admit that to either him or her sisters. From the moment she had disembarked from the car and begun shopping with Lavender and Pavarti, all of her senses had told herself that she was being followed. At first she told herself she was being ridiculous. Who could possibly be interested in following her? Yet the sensation continued, a nagging awareness that had been honed in her from the time she was a child living on the streets. Of course more people in the shops were staring at her than usual, because the moment the realized who she was the shopkeepers began exclaiming how relieved they were that she was alive. But it wasn't the public's fascinated gawking that was making the hairs prickle along the back of her neck. Someone was watching her.

And she was convinced that someone had to be the Dark Shadow.

"You go back to the car, Oliver," she instructed, smiling at him. "We'll be along shortly."

Oliver regarded her doubtfully. He spent too many years battling his own aches and pains to not recognize the signs in others. "Are you sure?"

"I promise to return to the car the moment I get tired," Hermione solemnly vowed.

"We won't be much longer, Oliver," Lavender added. "Just a few more stores."

He huffed impatiently. "That's what you said an hour ago."

"But this time we really mean it," Pavarti assured him. "And we won't let Hermione overdo it – we promise."

"See that you don't. She isn't accustomed to traipsing all over London in search of a pair of shoes." With that he turned and headed back to the car.

"You are all right to continue, aren't you, Hermione?" It suddenly occurred to Lavender that she was not being sensitive to her sister's infirmity. "If you like, Pavarti and I can finish buying what you need without you."

"Actually, I was thinking I might just stop for a bit." Hermione admitted. "Why don't you and Pavarti go into this store and I'll just stay outside and look in some windows until you're finished. I do find standing in the shops much harder than being outside where I can move around a little."

"I'll wait with you," Pavarti offered, disliking that idea of leaving her sister alone.

"no, that isn't necessary," Hermione hastily assured her. "You'll only be a few minutes, and Lavender may require you opinion on something. I'm sure we can finish up quicker if you are there to help her make a decision – otherwise, Lavender is liable to just buy everything in the store."

"I'm not quite that bad," Lavender protested, laughing.

"You are when you're left alone on your own," Pavarti teased. "Very well, Hermione. We promise not to be long."

"Take as much time as you need." Hermione smiled. "I'll be fine."

She waited a moment for them to go in the shop. Then she casually glanced down the street, searching for the tall, broadly built figure of the Dark Shadow. There were dozen's of people crowding the narrow sidewalk, but none of the men struck her as commanding enough to be the infamous thief who had held her so tightly the night before. She began to limp along, enduring the fleeting stares of surprise or pity that she always elicited. _Ignore them_. On and on she walked, trying not to feel humiliated as others passed her. She had not gone far, but it was sufficient to make her realize that her leg would not take her much further. Frustrated and discouraged, she stopped and turned around.

And saw a tall, heavyset man dart into on of the alleys leading off the fashionable thoroughfare.

Her heart pounding against her ribs, she moved toward the alley, trying not to draw attention. The tide of people walking on the street had become thick and fast, and it was a struggle for her to make her way through it. _Wait for me_, she pleaded silently, a flame of anticipation flaring within her. She had thought the Dark Shadow has disappeared from her life forever. But she had been wrong. It would have been easy for him to return to her house that morning, waiting for her to emerge. Understandably, he did not want to approach her while she was in the company of her sisters. That explained why he was clandestinely following her. He was waiting for a moment where he might find her alone, no doubt so he could thank her for helping him.

While she was enormously pleased to see him again, she had to make it clear that no thanks were necessary. She would reassure him that she was happy to have been able to help him when he so desperately needed it. And then, in what scant minutes remained, she would plead with him to abandon his life of crime. She would encourage him to try and build something honest and pure with his abilites, which she was certain were considerable, so that he could make a decent life for himself without the constant fear of being imprisoned, or worse.

The alley was dank and sour with the stanch of sewage and rotting garbage. She forced herself to inhale shallow breaths as she limped along the refuse-strewn path. The Dark Shadow had crept behind a pile of decrepit crates.

"You don't need to be alarmed," Hermione called softly. "It's only me."

He didn't answer.

"No one knows you are following me," she added, trying to put him at ease. "I slipped away. If my sisters start looking for me, they'll likely begin by going into a few shops. They'll never think to search for me here."

No response.

She bit her lip, wondering why he didn't answer her. 'Are you all right?"

He emerged slightly from the shadows and nodded. The rough cap pulled low over his forehead masked his features, and his manner was wary. Clearly he was not certain she could be trusted.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better," she told him. "I was very worried about you last night. When they told me you were gone, I feared you might not have had strength to make it safely home." She took a few tentative steps. She didn't know whether he trusted her enough to permit her to see his face, obscured though it might be.

"It is dangerous for you to be following me," she continued. "An Auror came to my house last night looking for you. I'm afraid he may not have been satisfied with my story of how you released me. After you leave her, you must be careful not to seek me out again. Do you understand?"

She had nearly reached him. She paused, waiting for him to instruct her not to come any further.

Silence.

"Was there something you wanted to tell me?" Her voice was gentle, almost coaxing.

He said nothing.

"Do you want me to go then?"

He shook his head.

"Shall I come closer?"

He hesitated. Finally, he nodded.

Nervous excitement was pouring through her now, making her feel both elated and just a little afraid. She took a step toward him, and another, until she was close enough to reach out and touch him.

His head was bowed and the light dim, but she could still make out the grizzled gray upon his lined weathered cheek. She stared at it surprised. She had not expected the Dark Shadow to be quiet that old. Her gaze shifted from the roughly cut line of his jaw to his mouth. It no longer struck her as full and sensual as it had been the night before. The mouth she was staring at was thin and spare and hard, its corners barely lifted in a harsh smile. And then her eyes fell upon the thick white scar hat branched out from the lower lip.

Sick, paralyzing dread suddenly gripped her, rendering her unable to speak.

'Hello 'Mione," drawled a low, amused voice. "I'm guessing you didn't expect to find me here, did ye?"

Archie raised his head as he stepped out of the shadow, giving her the full benefit of his face. "What's the matter?" he asked sarcastically, taking perverse pleasure in her terrified shock. "You'd think your old man was come back from the dead."

_No_, thought Hermione, feeling as if she was going to be sick. _He can't be here. He can't_.

"I must say, you don't look too happy to see me," he remarked, frowning. "Why don't you come over here and give us a kiss? Or do you think you're too fine to touch a filthy dip like me?" He shorted with laughter.

"What do you want?" she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She was not a little girl anymore, she reminded herself desperately. He has no power over her anymore.

She glanced wildly about the alley, feeling dangerously alone and vulnerable.

"Why, I just wanted to see you," he declared innocently. "Surely a dad's got the right to see his own flesh and blood, don't he? Especially after spending four long years doing hard labour in prison. Gives a man a lot of time to think, hard labour does. Do you know about the crank machine, Mione?" his gaze narrowed. "Do you know how many times a man has to turn it in a day, or suffer the cut a hex?"

Hermione numbly shook her head.

"Ten thousand," he told her. "Sounds impossible, don't it? And' some days it is – especially when the Dementors make the screws so tight you have to heave your whole body against the fucking thing just to get it to turn once. First to go is your hands – the skin on them blisters and rots, but you scarce notice because the bones get so cramped you feel like you'll never be able to open your fingers again. And then it's the rest of you that's ruined, from your wrists right down to your feet. But you can't think of that. By the time you've finished you're all but dead, but then they're dragging you to it the next day and there's nothing you can do but start over and hope it doesn't kill ya before you're time is up. But of course it didn't kill me, as you can plainly see." He smiled at her, exposing a jaggered row of yellow rotting teeth. "I'm a survivor, Mione, like you. Although, I must say, I didn't expect you to survive near as well as you have. I mean, just look at you with your fancy clothes, riding about in a car. You've come a long way from the dirty little girl who used to pick pockets and raise her skirts for a bit of money in Devil's Den, that's for sure." He spat on the ground.

'How id you find me?" she whispered, still struggling to accept that the man standing before her was real, and not some dreadful nightmare.

"Well, it weren't easy," he admitted. 'After I got out I moved around a bit and stayed clear of Inveraray. I figured you was probably dead. You always was weak and sickly, and I thought if prison didn't kill you straight off, reform school would. But after a few years I found myself near Inveraray, and thought I'd try to find out what happened to you. Imagine my surprise when I hared some spinster who married some sod from the prison had sprung you from jail. The prison governor wouldn't tell me no more, but I figured if those people wanted you, they could have you. You'd have been grown by then anyway and it weren't as if I could look after you. So I shoved on.

"Then a few months ago I comes to London and as I'm going about St. Giles and Seven dials, I hears about some crippled girl who has set up a home for whores and such – a girl who comes from money, on account of being the ward of the Marquees of Redmond, who lives in the north of Scotland. I asked around a bit, and find out they call her Miss Hermione Granger. And I thinks to myself, a crippled Scottish lass named Hermione going around with doxies and prigger? So I finds out where your house is, and the minute I see you limping out of it, I know it's my own Mione, all grown up." He picked at his teeth with a grimy nail. "So I'm thinking, since you've done so well for yourself all these years while I was rotting in prison, it's high time you shared a little bit of your good fortune with your dad. After all I'm the one who brought you to the world. If not for me, you'd have nothing."

Hermione but the side of her mouth until blood leaked onto her tongue. All the fear she had suffered as a child was surging through her, rendering her unable to answer him. It was hopeless to argue anyway, she realized bleakly. Her father had never tolerated disrespect from her. Any fledgling signs of spirit or disobedience had always been swiftly quashed with either his belt or his fists.

Her leg was throbbing violently now. She had to get back to the carriage soon, before it collapsed in spasm.

"What do you want from me?"

"Why, no more than my due." He assured her. "After all, I'm the one who had to look after you all those years, after your mom died. He had to keep bread in your mouth and togs on your back, and a roof over your head, too, when I could. Some chaps would've said sod it, and let you make your own way, but not Boney Buchan. Your mother swore on her deathbed that you was my flesh and blood, and even though she was a lying thieving bitch, I decided to treat you as if you were."

His ugly description of her mother had no effect on Hermione. She didn't remember her well enough to feel anything for her except a detached pity for the torment she must have endured while living with her father. That and a complete bewilderment as to what had drawn her mother to him in the first place. It amazed Hermione that the man standing before her actually thought he had looked after her. In some twisted corner of his mind, he believed that all those hideous, terrifying years, filled with drunkenness and ranting and violence could be equated with care. But she didn't argue.

She had learned long ago that defiance would only be answered with brutality.

"How much?" she whispered.

"Five thousand Galleons."

She stared at him in shock.

"You heard me right," he assured her, amused by the startled look on her face. "Five thousand Galleons, and that's bloody cheap when you consider all I had to suffer on account of you. If not for you I'd have not been caught that day Mione. I'd not have spent eight years in some shithole prison, wondering if I'd live long enough to be a free man again. And all the while I was breaking my back getting beat by Dementors, you were living in the bloody lap of luxury, with some goddamn marquees paying to have you sit on velvet and lick sweets all day." He raised a leering brow. "Or was there something else you were licking for him that made him so willing to keep you?"

His crudeness revolted her. Everything about him revolted her. She swallowed thickly, fighting the nausea churning within her.

"I don't have five thousand Galleons," she told him helplessly. "I don't have that kind of money."

"Do you take me for a fool?" His face twisted with fry. "I know about your precious marquees, Mione. I been to Mayfair, and I seen his fine house. So don't be thinking you can toss me a few Sickle and be done with it. I want money, and I want it quick."

"I'm not lying to you," Hermione told him desperately. "I don't live in Mayfair, and the house I live in is leased. Mr Redmond pays for the directly, but our agreement is that I have to raise the funds to keep it running through donations. When I need anything else, I sign for it and the bills are sent to him. I don't have five thousand Galleons."

He spat on the ground in disgust. "Then you'll just have to get it, won't you?"

"I can't – Mr Redmond would never just give me that kind of money, and I haven't any large donations-"

His enormous hands shot forward suddenly, grabbing her.

"Don't tell me you can't get it, Mione," he warned harshly, his breath hot and foul against her cheek. "I know where you live, and I know where those other shit of Redmond's live too. If you don't want to see something happen to your precious new family, you'll get me my money. Understand?"

He crushed her arms with bruising strength, reminding her of what he was capable. And suddenly she was seven years old again. Tears sprang to her eyes and her body began to quiver with an overwhelming mixture of fear and desperation and hatred.

"Yes," she managed raggedly, fighting to keep her tears from falling. If he saw her cry, it would only make it worse. He always slapped her harder when she cried. "I'll get it."

He glowered at her, his dark eyes burning with menace. "You've got four days. I'll come for it after that. And don't be thinking of telling no one about this, Mione," He warned. "If I catch the Aurors or anyone sniffing about for me, I'll make you and your precious family of swells sorry you were ever born. Got it?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Good." Abruptly, he released her. "I'll see you in four days." He turned and sprinted away.

Hermione pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Lavender and Pavarti were probably searching for her by now. Breathing hard, she fought to regain some modicum of composure as she began to slowly limp back toward the elegant world that gleamed at the end of the alley.

"There you are!" called Lavender, noticing her after she had emerged onto the street. "Where on earth have you been?"

"I just went into this shop," Hermione lied, pointing to the nearest store.

"We were worried about you." Pavarti regarded her with concern. "Are you all right? You look terribly pale."

"I'm a little tired. Can we go now?"

"Of course we can." Pavarti took her arm and wrapped it around her own. "You just lean against me while we walk up to meet Oliver."

'I'm so sorry we took so long. We should have realized it would be too much for you," Lavender apologized.

"Did you get something nice?" Hermione asked, trying to shift their attention away from her.

"We got the mot beautiful silk stockings for you – they're light and sheer you'd almost think you were wearing nothing," Lavender said enthusiastically. "And then we saw the most gorgeous corset, and we knew you'd never buy such a fancy one for yourself, but Pavarti and I decided you really had to have it…"

Hermione smiled and nodded, pretending to listen as her sisters chattered happily about all the lovely things they had bought for her.

She was trapped, she realized frantically as she limped toward Oliver and their waiting car.

Boney Buchan had found her. Until she paid him what he wanted, she was completely at his mercy.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It was a perfect night for a jewel thief.

Diamonds, rubies and emeralds glittering upon the milky breasts and sagging earlobes of nearly every woman in the ballroom, while the men accompanying them boasted sparkling stones in their cuffs and shirt studs. The air was laden with the scent of heavy perfume and richly spiced food, and eager gossip over the Dark Shadow's disastrous robbery attempt of two nights earlier was all but drowning out the lively strains of the orchestra. Everyone had an opinion on the mysterious jewel thief's identity, the severity of the wound he had suffered, and the extraordinary step he had taken by murdering Mr. Haywood and abducting Mr Redmond's spinster ward. Draco gripped the steam of his untouched wine glass as he studied the room, only half listening to the vigorous debates raging around him. His shoulder was throbbing and the sickly-sweet odours wafting through the air were threatening to trigger a headache.

If not for the brilliant jewelery circling around him, he would have stayed home and nursed his aching shoulder with a bottle of good fire whiskey.

"…then he jumps out of the car and disappears, just like that," finished My Chadwick, his great, bloated chest puffed up with importance as he surveyed his fascinated audience.

"She's lucky he didn't kill her," observed MR Shelton, shaking his little balding head in disbelief.

"Why would he want to do a thing like that?" Mr Reynolds frowned. "Miss Granger is a cripple. She would hardly have been any threat to him."

"No one has been as close to the Dark Shadow as she has," Mr Shelton explained, as if it were obvious. "Given the chance, she might be able to identify him. Killing her would ensure that never happened."

"The newspaper reported that she never saw his face – he kept his mask on the entire time," pointed out Blaise.

"Doesn't matter," Mr Shelton insisted. "She might be able to spot some mannerism he has, or perhaps recognize the sound of his voice."

"Can't imagine charging someone with murder based on their voice," scoffed Mr Beckett dismissively, stroking the wiry gray point of his beard. "He could have disguised it while he was with her."

"At any rate, he damned well got away." Mr Chadwick took a hefty swallow of his wine, unnerved by the fact that he had come so close to death. "Now all the Aurors can do is wait until he strikes again."

"I doubt that Miss Granger was much help to them." Mr Reynolds's voice was laden with disapproval. "After all, she's well know for her sympathies towards criminals."

"That's what comes from having bad blood," complained Mr Shelton. "You can try to cover it up, but you can't change it, no matter how much money you throw at it."

"You think Miss Granger has bad blood because she wants to help the less fortunate?" Draco's tone was mild.

"Of course not," Mr Shelton assured him. "Lots of ladies work to help the less fortunate – my own wife included. But there are reputable, well-established charities for these causes, which only ask that respectable women help to raise funds for them, by making handicrafts to sell at their bazaars, for instance, or getting their husbands to donate money."

"Miss Granger lives with thieves and whores," Mr Reynolds added. "No decent woman would permit herself to sleep under the same roof with the scum of society. It's shocking. I'm surprised Mr Redmond allows it."

"She lives with them because she's one of them." Mr Beckett's lip curled with disdain. "All of Redmond's wards came from thieves and whores – and everyone of them was jailed at one time or another for their filthy, criminal ways. Redmond has done his best to clean them up, but you can't turn pigs into horses, and he's been a bloody fool to try."

Draco casually studied his wine, maintaining a demeanour of complete indifference. It had never occurred to him the Miss Granger had sprung from a criminal background herself as she primly lectured him on the unpleasantness of prison and the merits of leading a respectable life. The idea of her being jailed as a child bothered him. Although he was well aware that Wizard jails regularly incarcerated urchins, somehow he always imagined that they were invariably a tough lot. Miss Granger scarcely fit his profile of a common street urchin.

"I believe she was working with the Dark Shadow to rob Chadwick last night,' Mr Shelton theorized. 'If that house elf hadn't come upon the two of them in Mrs Chadwick's room they'd have made away with all her jewels."

"That's ridiculous," objects Mr Chadwick. "Let's not forget that Miss Granger was an invited guest in my home, and that she is the ward of Mr Redmond."

"don't you think it strange Miss Granger just happened to come upon the Dark shadow in your wife's room while everyone else was down at dinner?"

"But the Shadow is well known for breaking into houses wile the owners are there," Blaise pointed out. "He likes to slip in and out with no one noticing."

" But why was she upstairs when everyone else was dining?" Mr Beckett's eyes narrowed cryptically. 'Seems suspect, if you ask me."

"Miss Granger told my wife she wasn't feeling well and asked if she could be excused for a few minutes," Mr Chadwick explained. "Since all of the guest chambers had been assigned to overnight guests, my wife quite sensibly told her to use her own chamber."

"And then she just happens upon the Dark Shadow?" Mr Shelton shook his head unconvinced. "She was going up to meet him, I say, and help him rob you blind."

"But why on earth would she need to steal jewels from Chadwick?" wondered Mr Beckett. 'After all, Redmond has money. He takes care if her, just as he does all his children."

"The urge to steal is in the blood," Mr Shelton explained authoritatively, "just like the urge toward violence or depravity. Can't be helped. That's why the only answer is to lock criminals up. Miss Granger's refuge house is just a place for scum of society to fatten up on beef and cake while they trade amongst each other before going out to take advantage of the rest of us law-abiding citizens. If I ever meet Miss Granger, I'll damn well tell her so."

"It seems you're going to have your chance," Mr Reynolds mused. "I believe that's she on the other side of the ballroom."

Draco raised his gaze in astonishment. A crowd of people was swarming around someone at the opposite end of the room, forming a glittering vortex of jewels and evening wear that prevented him from seeing that object of their attention.

And then suddenly someone moved, and he found himself staring at the lovely young woman who had saved his life.

She seemed fragile and uncertain to him amidst the curious crowd, which was showering her with excited questions. Her delicately structured face was pale and grave, although every now and then one of the tall young men standing on either side of her would make some comment that would elicit a forced smile from her. He did not know who her two young escorts were, but it was immediately apparent to him that they were extremely protective of her. One was supporting her by holding her hand upon his arm, while the other was effectively shielding her from the people clamouring around her. Thee were two women standing close o her as well, a stunningly beautiful woman who was answering the group's questions with easy charm, and a lovely dark-haired woman who smiled and nodded. Thrust into the glare of the enormous ballroom, Hermione seemed smaller to him, smaller and shyer and afraid. He could almost feel her distress as she stood there, could feel the awkwardness and embarrassment gripping her as she endured the relentless scrutiny of the curious mob around her.

What the hell was she doing there, when it was so obvious she was finding the attention excruciating?

"Come on Draco, let's go talk to her," suggested Blaise eagerly.

"No."

"Don't you want to find out more about her encounter with the Dark Shadow?"

"Not really."

Draco swirled his wine around his glass as he studied her, affecting a cursory, almost bored inspection. She shouldn't be there, he thought as she valiantly tried to answer a question. Not because he feared she might reveal something about him that would lead to his capture. She had already proven her determination to protect him, even though he could not understand why. She probably assumed he was just another criminal who needed saving. A misguided victim of an unjust society, who only required a hot meal, and a few words of wisdom to realize the error of his ways. And why shouldn't she think that? He had not given her any reason to think otherwise.

"I'm going out to get some air." He set his untouched glass down on a table and strode toward the doors leading to the garden, leaving Blaise free to join the crowd fawning around the newly renowned Miss Granger.

* * *

"…and that is why these poor women and children must be helped, not by selling them to work-houses, which only break their bodies and their spirits, but by creating a safe home for them where they can receive food and shelter and decent clothes, and where they are taught to read and learn a trade. It is only by equipping them to earn a decent wage that we help them change their lives for the better."

Hermione clenched her fists and swallowed, trying not to let her audience see how nervous she was. She knew they were not really interested in what she was saying. They wanted to hear about her being held hostage by the Dark Shadow, not to be lectured on their moral obligation to help the poor. But Lavender and Pavarti had advised her to take control of the conversation from the outset to try to elicit donations, and that was what she was doing.

"It is a noble cause you have taken upon yourself, Miss Granger," Mr Reynolds remarked.

_Yes_, she thought, relief trickling through her. _If I can get just one of you to understand and support my work, then surely other will follow_. "Thank you, Mr Reynolds. May I count upon you to make a donation?"

"Regrettably, I am unable to contribute to every new charity that comes along, and as I 'm sure you are aware, there are hundreds of them. My wife is most active on behalf of the St Mungo's- Aid Society and the Anti-Gambling League, to name but two. There are also a number of asylums operating in London which provide shelter and assistance to the poor, are there not?"

"They are always full and have to turn countless people away, so the streets remain filled with children and women who desperately need help," Hermione told him. "We need more institutions to aid these people, especially as thousands come to London in the hopes of finding a better life, and instead are reduced to stealing in order to survive."

"No one needs to steal," objects Mr Beckett with a sanctimonious sniff. "There is always work to be had somewhere, providing they are able and willing. The problem is, they aren't willing."

"Stealing is in their blood," Mr Shelton added, "Can't be helped. You can take them in, Miss Granger, but I'll warrant they'll just be put preying upon innocent people the moment the mood strikes them. They're better off in jail. At least there they will learn that there are consequences for their actions."

"Some of these children are put onto the streets by their parents at the age of six or seven," Hermione countered, trying to help them understand. "They'll sell bruised fruit or scarps of ribbon or cloth if they can find some, but if they can't, their parents force them to steal. If they come home with nothing, they are cruelly beaten and sent out again."

She gripped the cool silk of her gown, trying not to think of Boney Buchan. This wasn't stealing, she told herself desperately. She would simply borrow whatever money she raised for her asylum and give it to him. Then she would find a way to pay it back. She had no idea how she would do that, but she couldn't focus on that. Her father had to be paid first. Her family had to be protected by whatever means necessary.

"My house of refuge is small," she conceded, "but I believe if we can save even a few more children and young women from the streets, that will make an enormous difference. Our society will be better for it."

"Indeed." Mr Shelton sounded utterly unconvinced.

"Tell us about the Dark Shadow, Miss Granger," said Mr Reynolds, bored with the discussion about her charity. "Did he threaten to kill you?"

Hermione hesitated, reluctant to shift the conversation. She was losing them, she realized. Perhaps she should just answer a question or two about the Dark Shadow, just to keep their attention. "I don't think he ever said those exact words –"

"Did you think you were going to die when he took you hostage?"

"I was afraid, but I never believed he would actually kill me –"

"What about after he shot and killed poor Mr Haywood?" demanded Mr Beckett. "Weren't you terrified?"

"The Dark Shadow didn't kill Mr Haywood," she said emphatically. "The shot was fired by someone else."

"That's ridiculous," objected Mr Shelton. "The Dark Shadow killed him. Everyone saw it."

"They are mistaken," Hermione countered. "I was right beside him. He never fired his wand."

"So you're saying the Dark Shadow has an accomplice?"

"Of course, he must have," Mr Reynolds interjected before she could answer. "Mr Haywood was killed while threatening to hex the Dark Shadow, so if the Shadow didn't shoot him, he must have had an accomplice protecting him."

"I don't know who shot Mr Haywood," said Hermione, "but I don't think –"

"That must have been the same person who picked him up after he got out of Miss Granger's car," added another man.

The crow murmured with excitement at this new possibility as questions and answers began to be tossed back and forth amongst them.

"How do you know someone picked him up?"

"He was wounded, so he had to have had help getting away."

"Miss Granger, did he ever indicate to you that he had someone waiting for him?"

"Did you have the sense that you were being followed?"

"You are the only person who has ever actually spoken with him at length," Blaise shouted above the din. "What did he sound like?"

Hermione regarded the crowd uncertainly. She did not want to reveal any more information about the Dark Shadow, but she realized people would think it strange if she refused to answer. She could not afford to give them the impression that she was trying to protect him, as that would only hinder her attempts to raise money. "I'm not sure what you mean –"

"Would you say he was an educated man, or someone of a less privileged background?" Blaise elaborated.

She hesitated. "I believe he was probably educated."

"Are you suggesting he spoke like a gentleman?" Mr Shelton looked outraged by the possibility.

"I suppose so," Hermione conceded, "but other than that I don't really recall –"

"Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?"

Hermione started at the tall, blond-haired man who had asked the question. His face was obscured by the fact that he was apparently preoccupied with the task of removing some obstinate piece of lint from his otherwise meticulous evening coat.

"No," she answered. "He spoke only a few words."

The recalcitrant wisp of fluff removed, he raised his head to meet her gaze. His eyes were penetrating, but his tone was light as he continued, 'Then it would seem that the Dark Shadow could be anywhere – even in attendance at this ball tonight – and you would be unable to identify him."

"That's correct."

"A pity." His mouth curved as his gaze swept over the women around him. "Given the magnificent trinkets on display here this evening, this would be an excellent place for him to peruse some of London's finest jewellery. I know if I were he, I would be quite taken by that dazzling necklace resting so comfortably against Mrs. Pembroke's lovely throat."

"Really, Mr Malfoy, how you joke!" Mrs Pembroke flitted her fan with feigned modesty over the mountainous expanse of her ruby-and-diamond-dotted bosom.

"I believe my sister has answered enough questions for now," said Ron, aware that Hermione had endured as much attention as she could.

"Besides, I'm sure there are lots of you who would rather be dancing than standing around talking about the Dark Shadow," added Harry jokingly.

The people in the crowd murmured their assent and began to disperse, eager to discuss the deliciously frightening possibility that the Dark Shadow was there amongst them, and to evaluate whose jewels might be significant enough to attract his attention.

"Why don't you sit down over here, Hermione, while Ron and I go get you something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry," she said, grateful for the chair Harry offered her.

"You should eat something Hermione," Pavarti told her. 'you haven't had much today."

"Are you feeling all right?" Lavender regarded her worriedly. 'You seem pale t me."

"I'm fine," Hermione assured her. "I just hate having everyone stare at me."

In fact her stomach had been roiling since her meeting with her father. Standing before those people and enduring their questions about the Dark Shadow and their disparaging comments about her work had only increased her distress. She had found the experience profoundly upsetting and humiliating. They all pitied her because of her leg, and despised her because of her past – two thing that she could never change. Worse, she had failed to obtain even one donation.

How on earth was she to come up with the money her father had demanded?

"We should never have made you come here," Ron muttered, angered by the way the crowd had dismissed her appeal for help. "If you want to leave, I'll take you home."

"She can't leave just yet," Lavender protested. 'Then everyone will gossip about the fact that she got upset after all their questions and left."

"Who cares?" Harry cast a scathing look around the room. 'Let them say whatever they want."

"It matters because Hermione is trying to establish credibility amongst these people so that she can turn to them for donations and make a success of her refuge house," Lavender explained. "I know it's hard for you, Hermione, but I really think you should try to stay and at least pretend you are having a good time, even if it's only for half an hour. There could be some people here who didn't want to pledge a donation in front of everyone, but might well approach you later. You don't want them to think that you are easily flustered by a few pointed comments."

Hermione realized that her sister was probably right. "Very well."

'Shall Ron and I get you something to eat?"

She managed a small smile. "That would be nice."

"And if you think you're all right resting her for a moment, Pavarti and I will go over and say good evening to Mr and Mrs Chadwick. We won't be long."

"I'll be fine Lavender. I'll just sit here and rest a little."

She sat perfectly straight in her chair, her hands clenched upon her lap as she watched her brothers and sisters leave. Her leg was throbbing beneath the heavy layers of her skirts. She wanted to stretch it out to ease the clench of its aching muscles, but such a movement would have been considered unladylike. And so she kept her leg bent in its socially acceptable position and tried to distract herself by watching the elegant men and women who were gliding effortlessly around the ballroom.

She had always loved dancing. It seemed to her such a wondrous, joyful activity, with the men in their immaculately dark suits and crisp white shirts leading beautifully gowned women in sweeping circles to the strains of music. The precise, measured grace of their movements enchanted her; from the moment a man extended his hand and escorted his smiling partner onto the floor. She could not remember what it was like to move with ease. Her leg had been brutally shattered when she was only nine. Any recollections she might have had of running or skipping or even just walking evenly had been vanquished beneath he years of crushing pain that followed. But no shard of envy invaded her breast as she watched the dancers move. Instead she closed her eyes and retreated inward, feeling the music filter through her as she imagined herself gliding around the floor, on beautiful straight legs that were strong and supple and free of pain.

"Miss Granger?"

Her eyes flew open. Embarrassment heated her cheeks as she looked at the handsome dark haired man standing before her. How long had he been watching her?

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to startle you." He apologized. 'I'm Blaise Zambini. I just wanted to tell you how horrified I was to hear about what happened to you at the hands of the Dark Shadow. Like everyone else in London, I'll be greatly relieved when he is finally captured and hanged. I hope Mr Malfoy didn't upset you too much by suggesting that the rouge might actually be here this evening. Malfoy was just making a foolish joke without stopping to consider the effect it might have on you, given the ordeal you suffered. I can assure you he didn't mean anything by it."

His eyes were large and toffee-coloured, and they appeared to be genuinely earnest. Hermione regarded him uncertainly, wondering what had prompted him to walk over and tell her this. A lifetime of being started at and talked about had left guarded with strangers.

"Thank you, Mr. Zambini, for your concern, but you needn't worry. I'm fine."

"If you permit me, I'll bring Malfoy over and introduce him to you, and then you'll see he really isn't such a bad sort," Blaise offered. "He might even be willing to help your that refuge house of yours with a donation."

The prospect of a donation eased her initial wariness. "Do you really think so?"

"I'll make sure of it." He flashed her a conspiratorial smile. "I'll make him feel so guilty for his remark; he'll have no choice but to make an enormous donation just to get me to be quiet. If you'll just give me a minute, I'll fetch him."

"Why don't you take me to him instead?"

'Are you sure you wouldn't prefer me to bring him to you?" His tone chivalrous, but it was obvious to her that he was concerned about her ability to walk.

"I'm fine, Mr Zambini," she assured him. She hated the idea of sitting in the chair like some aged matron, patiently waiting for people to be presented to her. It only perpetuated everyone's view of her as a helpless cripple – which she wasn't. "I was only sitting for a moment because I found myself a little tired. I'm quite rested now."

"Wonderful." Blaise extended his hand to help her up from her seat, then gave her a wink. "Let's go find Malfoy and see if we can't get him to give you a nice fat sum."

* * *

"Oh, come now, Mr Malfoy, you can't possibly say not to me!"

Mrs Elizabeth Collins blinked her long lashes at him, her little mouth drawn up in a pout. It was a mouth made for pleasure, Draco reflected, watching as she provocatively caressed the edge of her glass with her pink tongue before sipping her drink. A few years ago he might have enjoyed contemplating the soft slickness of that velvety little mouth. Might have spent an hour or two exchanging heated glances and verbal jousts with her, watching as the champagne flushed her skin and the gradual ripening of the evening eroded her defence. Might have artfully woven a net of yearning around her, waiting for the exact moment when he would lead her out into the warm dark green of the garden. There he would have kissed her and touched her and pleasured her, teaching her all the things she could do with that greedy little mouth. It would have been a pleasant diversion for both of them, nothing more. But as he watched her lapping up with gold bubbles in her glass, the thought of expending so much effort on some fleeting sexual encounter failed to arouse him. He was tired, his shoulder hurt like hell, and he was badly in need of a drink. But he couldn't drink – he had to keep his mind sharp. And so he tilted his head to one side and said in a tone edged with self-mockery, "Tonight you are all the drink I need, Mrs Collins."

"Now that's a gallant line," quipped Blaise, slipping between the two of them. "Honestly, Draco, I had no idea you were such a romantic. I can see I arrived just in time to save poor Mrs Collins from falling victim to your charms. Miss Granger, may I present to you the fatally charming Draco Malfoy, and Mrs Elizabeth Collins. Draco, I don't believe you have been formally introduced to Miss Granger, who is the ward of Marquees Redmond, and more recently, a reluctant acquaintance of the Dark Shadow."

Draco started in surprise at Hermione. Although she had given no indication that she knew who he was when he had stood at the back of the crowd, he knew better than to test her at such a close range. Perhaps some silver of male vanity made him believe he had made more of an impression on her than could be hidden behind a mask or dark coat. There was also the possibility that at some point as he lay barely conscious in her home, she or one of the others who had tended to him had taken the liberty of peering beneath his mask.

What the hell would he do if she recognized him?

"Good evening, Mr Malfoy." Hermione wished they had not come upon Mr Malfoy at such a painfully inopportune moment. From the way he was staring at her, she felt certain he was annoyed with her sudden intrusion.

"Now Draco, I believe your little jest about the Dark Shadow possibly being in attendance this evening was rather disturbing for Miss Granger," scolded Blaise. "Knowing that you would be most upset to learn that you had disturbed her peace of mind, I thought you might want to apologize."

Draco raised a brow, feigning polite concern. "Forgive me, Miss Granger, if I said anything that may have caused you distress. I can assure you that was not my intent. Will you accept my apology?"

Mr Malfoy was an exceptionally handsome man, Hermione decided, from the chiselled line of his jaw to the sensual curve of his faintly smiling mouth. His hair was bright blond, and he wore it slightly longer than was fashionable, suggesting that either he didn't care for trends, or he was too preoccupied with other matters to worry about the details of his appearance. Yet his evening clothes were well cut and well fitted, further emphasizing both his considerable height and the solid expanse of his chest and shoulders. It was his eyes, however, that captivated her attention. They were a combination of smoke and sea, like a darkening sky just before a summer storm. They regarded her with only the politest of interest, asking nothing, revealing nothing.

A strange unease began to well within her.

"Of course I accept your apology, Mr Malfoy," she said. "I understand that the subject of the Dark Shadow is of enormous interest to nearly everyone in London, and consequently I must learn to expect that people are going to want to question me on him."

"I assured Miss Granger that you would be pleased to make a donation to her asylum – as a way of making amends," Blaise added helpfully.

"Of course," Draco agreed. "I would be pleased to contribute to your very fine charity, Miss Granger. Tomorrow I shall send over a bank note for one hundred Galleons."

It was a very generous donation. A day earlier, Hermione would have been elated by such a contribution, especially by someone whose acquaintance she had only just made. But she need five thousand Galleons within three days' time. One hundred Galleons was nothing to her anymore. "Thank you."

Draco was surprised by her obvious lack of enthusiasm. He was not well versed in the costs of feeding and clothing half a dozen or so whores and urchins, but he imagined a hundred galleons, managed carefully, could be made to last a reasonable amount of time. Why was she not more pleased?

"Why don't we say two hundred galleons?" he amended. Perhaps she had incurred some expenses that needed to be paid off. "I imagine running an asylum in the middle of London can be rather expensive."

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy." Two hundred Galleons still wouldn't begin to address the amount her father had demanded of her, but it was a start. 'You are most kind."

"Oh, I absolutely adore this music," exclaimed Mrs Collins suddenly, deciding she had tolerated Hermione and Blaise's intrusion long enough. "Mr Malfoy, I insist that you dance this waltz with me – I won' take no for an answer!" Emboldened by the champagne she had consumed and the certainty that Draco was not affected by her considerable charms, she reached out and took his hand. "You will forgive us, Miss Granger, if we take our leave?"

"Of course," murmured Hermione, wondering what it was about Mr Malfoy that was bothering her. "Please enjoy yourselves."

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger." Although he didn't feel like dancing, Draco was relieved to have a reason to excuse himself from Miss Granger's presence. He was satisfied that she did not recognize him, but to stay in her company any longer was risky. "I wish you and the members of your household the very best."

"Thank you."

Hermione watched as Mr Malfoy dutifully led Mrs Collins onto the crowded dance floor. He walked with the grace of a panther, his stride fluid and sure. She was quite certain he would be an accomplished dancer.

"If you like, I shall escort you back the where I found you, Miss Granger," Blaise offered. "Your family is probably wondering what has happened to you."

'Thank you, Mr Zambini." Hermione's gaze remained fastened upon Mr Malfoy. He gaze a small, courtly, bow to Mrs Collins, the movement easy and elegant. The he raised his arms to take hold of his lovely young partner.

And winced.

The pain contortion of his face was abrupt. In the next instant he had completely mastered it, to the extent that had Hermione blinked, she would have missed it altogether. He had now assumed an expression of polite enjoyment, which he maintained perfectly as he led Mrs Collins in expert circles around the floor.

_It's can't be_, thought Hermione, shocked by the certainty that it was his shoulder that had caused him to wince. Mr Malfoy was an esteemed member of Wizardry Society. It was preposterous to think he could possibly be a common jewel thief. She started at him as he swept Mrs Collins around, swiftly comparing his height and build with that of the Dark Shadow. Both were tell and solidly built, she told herself impatiently. The same could be said of nearly a third of the men in the ballroom. She swiftly began to contrast the details of Mr Malfoy's face, hair, and voice to what she could recall of the Dark Shadow. The jewel thief's mask had kept her from seeing any of his features, and the cap he had worn had effectively covered his hair. As for his voice—

"Miss Granger?" Blaise was looking at her in confusion. "Is everything alright?'

She snapped her attention back to her escort. "Yes, I'm fine."

She laid her hand upon his offered arm and began to limp back to the area where Ron and Harry were waiting for her, her mind fervently evaluating Mr Malfoy. The Dark Shadow's voice had been low and rich, but the same could be said of many men. At that moment she could not recall it well enough to draw an accurate comparison. What was it, then, that was causing alarm to race up her spin?

His eyes.

"There you are!" exclaimed Harry, moving forward to greet her. "We were wondering what had become of you." He regarded Blaise with friendly interest. "I don't believe we have met."

"Mr. Zambini, permit me to introduce my brothers, Mr Harry Potter and Mr Ron Weasly," said Hermione. "Harry and Ron, this is Mr Zambini."

"A pleasure to meet the both of you," said Blaise, bowing slightly. "I do hope you don't mind that I stole your sister away for a short time. I wanted to introduce her to a friend of mine – which I hope you found worthwhile, Miss Granger." He gave Hermione a teasing smile. "I knew if we put Malfoy on the pot he would have no choice but to pay you."

Ron frowned. 'Pay her?"

"I encouraged Mr Malfoy to make a substantial donation to your sister's asylum, as a way of making amends for his rather thoughtless joke that the Dark Shadow might actually be here amongst us this evening," Blaise explained. "Miss Granger quite wisely showed no emotion when he made his initial pledge, which caused poor Malfoy to double his original offer!" He laughed. "No matter, he can afford it. Had she continued to play it cool with him I think we could have got him to go even higher."

"That's wonderful, Hermione," said Harry.

Hermione nodded, barely listening. Mr Malfoy was the Dark Shadow? But that made no sense. He was rich, after all. His background would have been filled with the trappings of wealth and privilege. What on earth would make him take such enormous risks to steal from the very people with whom he socialized?

'What can you tell me of Mr Malfoy?" she tried to sound only casually interested as she smiled at Blaise. "Have you known him very long?"

'We've been friends for a good while," Blaise answered. "He may make the odd joke here and there, but basically Malfoy's a serious sort. He became the man of the house when he was just twenty-four – his father died rather suddenly, and Malfoy had to step in and take over the estate and holdings, which were in something of a mess, I'm afraid. He's done an astonishing job of building it all up again, though. Everyone was amazed by what he managed to accomplish in a short period of time. He has a natural talent for business, it seems. I keep hoping if I stay around him long enough, some of that talent will rub off on me!" He laughed. 'It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger," he finished, bowing. 'and both of you also," he added, nodding at Ron and Harry. 'Enjoy the rest of your evening."

"How much did Mr Malfoy agree to donate?" asked Ron after he was gone.

"Two hundred Galleons."

Harry grinned. "Two hundred Galleons will keep you going for months, and once word gets out that Mr Malfoy has contributed to your asylum, surely there will be others willing to follow his lead."

"You look pale, Hermione." Ron regarded her worriedly. 'Would you like to leave?"

She shook her head. "I don't believe I thanked Mr Malfoy properly for his generous bequest. If you don't mind staying a little longer, I'll just go and have a quick word with him."

"I'll come with you," Harry offered.

"No, thank you. I think it would be better if I spoke with him alone."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

* * *

Draco lifted a glass of brandy from the silver tray a house elf was offering him and took a hefty swallow. Given the close call he had just experienced with Miss Granger, his resolve to refrain from drinking for the evening had been abandoned. As far as he was concerned, the evening was over. One drink, and then he was going to summon his car and go home. He was invited to several other balls over the next few days. Perhaps one of them would prove more profitable.

He turned to see Miss Granger limping toward him, alone.

_Oh Bloody Hell._

Gone was the reticent, faintly perplexed air she had when Blaise had dragged her over to meet him earlier. Draco had sensed then that something about him bothered her. He had tried to be careful not to say or do anything that might remind her of the Dark Shadow. Clearly, he had failed. Maybe he had some telltale mannerism of which he was unaware. Or perhaps the timbre of his voice was more distinctive than he realized. Whatever it was, Hermione Granger had made the connection between him and the jewel thief she had stumbled upon two nights earlier.

Now that he was not in imminent danger of either bleeding to death or being arrested, she no doubt wanted to reform his blackened soul and set him firmly on the path to righteousness.

"Forgive me, Mr Malfoy, but I would like to speak with you further about your donation," she began, her voice loud enough to be heard by those immediately around them. "Perhaps we could find a quiet place to talk."

Draco regarded her calmly. "Of course, Miss Granger. Why don't we step out onto the terrace? I hear that Mrs Marston's roses are not to be missed." He set his brandy glass on a table and politely offered her his arm.

A flush of heat pulsed through Hermione as she laid her gloved fingers against the hard warmth of his sleeve. She knew that arm. She had seen it stripped bare, had known the supple contours of its muscles, lean and firm filled with power. She had felt it wrapped tight around her, holding her a prisoner against the Dark Shadow's body, and later, clinging to her for support as she and Flynn struggled to help him into her house.

It seemed strange to lay her hand upon it with such polite restraint.

"Shall we?" enquired Mr Malfoy.

She began to limp toward the doors leading to the terrace, uncomfortably aware that everyone was staring at her.

"Would you like to go down into the gardens, or do you prefer the terrace?" Mr Malfoy asked politely.

Hermione looked at the multitude of steps cascading down into the gardens and bit her lip. "I think I would prefer to stay up on the terrace, if that is all right with you."

"Of course." Draco felt like an idiot for suggesting the gardens. Of course she didn't want to go tramping up and down all those steps with her injured leg. He scanned the grounds below one corner of the terrace, making sure no one was there to overhear their conversation. The he glanced at the balconies above. Empty. "Would this area over here suit you? There is a bench where you can sit down, if you like."

"Thank you."

He led her over to the stone bench and seated her. "a very pleasant evening, don't you think, Miss Granger?"

"I know who you are," Hermione said in a strained whisper.

He leaned against the balustrade and folded his arms across his chest, feigning bemusement. "Really."

"I'm not going to try and change you, if that's what you're thinking," she added quickly. She didn't have much time before one of her brothers or sisters came looking for her.

"That's a relief," he observed wryly. "And, may I add, somewhat refreshing. In my experience, most women usually can't wait to change me."

"I know about your background, Mr Malfoy," Hermione continued, flustered by his calm. The fact that he did not fine her to be a threat only made her feel more guilty about what she was going to do. "How your father died and left your estate in such a terrible state. I suppose you started stealing then, perhaps thinking you would take only enough to give you the money you needed to make some investments and get things going again. But stealing is not always a matter of need. I understand that. After a while, if you haven't been caught, it means you're either very lucky, or very good. Either way it gets into your blood. You find you can't help yourself. And there is always something more that you want."

"This is really fascinating, Miss Granger. Have you considered writing an article on this subject? I'm sure it would be well received –"

"I need more money from you."

Draco stared at her. This was not what he had expected. "are you trying to blackmail me?" he asked, incredulous.

"It isn't for me," she swiftly assured him.

"Then whom, may I ask is it for?"

"It's for my refuge house," she lied. "To help pay for expenses."

"Two hundred galleons wasn't generous enough?"

"Two hundred galleons was very generous. But I'm afraid I need quite a bit more than that."

"I see. Just how much more are we talking about?"

"I need five thousand galleons."

Draco had the grace not to laugh, but that was the limit of his restraint. "Forgive me, Miss Granger, but have you gone completely mad?"

"I realize it's a lot of money."

"it is more money than your entire house and all its furnishings are worth," Draco pointed out. "were you think of setting up a refuge house in the middle of Mayfair? Or perhaps leasing an estate in the country for all your charming friends?"

"No."

"Then what, may I ask, is it that compels you to ask me for such an exorbitant sum?"

"That is not your concern, Mr Malfoy. I need five thousand galleons, and I need it quickly."

"Then I suggest you ask your father for it. I'm sure Mr Redmond has never let you want for anything. It's an enormous amount of money, but if he doesn't have the funds, I'm certain the bank will grant him a loan."

"I cannot ask my father for it."

"Why not?"

"Because he would want to know what it was for, and I can't tell him."

"Why not?"

'That really isn't your concern, Mr Malfoy."

"You're right, it isn't. Unfortunately, Miss Granger, I am unable to help you, as I don't happen to have five thousand galleons at my disposal."

She looked at him in dismay. "In the past several months you have stolen jewels that have been valued at thousand of galleons," she pointed out. "It was detailed in the newspapers. Are you saying you have already spent the money?"

"Unfortunatly, the figures reported in the newspapers are greatly exaggerated," Draco objected. "Secondly, stolen jewels never fetch their appraised value on the black market. That is part of their appeal. The dealers who buy them like to feel they are getting a rather spectacular deal, given the risks involved in purchasing them."

"If you don't have the money, then I suppose you will have to steal it." Hermione shifted uncomfortably on the bench. She didn't like the idea of forcing him to steal, but it seemed there was no choice.

"I must confess, I find your attitude bewildering, given that you have devoted your life to reforming black-souled criminals like me. Do you believe I am completely beyond salvation?"

"I'm not interested in reforming you, Mr Malfoy," she informed him stiffly. He was toying with her, and she did not like t be mocked. "You are not a desperate child or a starving woman. You have not been forced to steal out of deprivation, in order to have a crust of bread to eat or decent boots for your filthy, blistered feet, or to provide food and shelter for your loved ones. You are an intelligent, educated man from a privileged background, who has made the decision to steal. No doubt when you started you had some reason that you felt was compelling enough, but I don't believe that after all these years those reasons still exist. You steal now either because you are addicted to the thrill of stealing, or because you live beyond your means and have to supplement your income. I don't know which it is, and unfortunately, I don't have time to care. I need five thousand galleons within threes days' time and I'm asking you if you will get it for me."

"And just why, precisely, do you think I should do that?"

She bit her lip. There was only one reason she could give him that would be persuasive enough to make him give her the money. Even so, she hated having to resort to it.

"I helped you the other night when you were trapped at Mr Chadwick's," she pointed out. 'Without my assistance you would have been arrested. Don't you think you owe me something for that?"

"Absolutely," Draco agreed. "I would think that I owe you something in the amount of a few hundred galleons, which I have already offered to give you. But five thousand galleons really does amount to blackmail. You do realize that, don't you?"

She regarded him miserably. "I suppose I do."

"So Miss Granger, if you are blackmailing me, you're going to have to tell me what it is you're going to go if I refuse to give you this money. I don't have much experience with this sort of thing, you understand, but I believe that is how it works."

She lowered her gaze to her skirts, unable to look at him. "Unfortunately, I will be forced to go to the police and tell them that you are the Dark Shadow."

She hated saying it. Draco could see that. She had hoped he would just give her a bank note for five thousand galleons and that would be that. He studied her a moment, watching as her hands clutched nervously at the emerald silk of her gown. What in the name of Merlin would require her to need such an enormous amount of money in such a short period of time? He didn't believe any bank would be demanding such a payment from her. First of all, the expenses of running that modest little house of her could only amount to about five hundred galleons a year – a thousand galleons at the very most. Since she had only opened it recently, he did not see how she could have be in any significant debt. Secondly, all the finances concerning her house would undoubtedly have been on Mr Redmond's name, which meant that any unpaid mortgages or loans would have been directed to him, not her."

What, then, had driven her to such a desperate act?

"Has someone threaded you?" he asked.

Hermione avoided his gaze. Her father had been clear about what would happen if she told anyone about him. He would hurt her family. Her leg began to throb reminding her that Boney Buchan was a man capable of inflicting great pain.

"No."

She was lying. He could see it in the forced calm of her face. Anger began to uncoil within him.

"You're lying, Miss Granger. You're afraid of something – if not your own welfare, then for the welfare of someone you care about. Has someone threatened one of the girls staying at your house? That one with the black eye – Annie – or the red-haired one – what the devil was her name?"

"You don't need to know why I need the money, Mr Malfoy," Hermione told him. "All that matters is that I have to have it."

"If someone is intimidating a member of your household, Miss Granger, you should contact the Aurors. They can help you."

"The Aurors cannot help me in this matter."

"But you believe I can."

"I believe five thousand galleons can."

"I don't know which I find more flattering – the fact that you thought I would have such an amount of money, or that you think I can easily steal it. Given my rather pathetic performance the other night, in which I not only failed to take anything of value, but also managed to attract a mob, be accused of murder, and get shot before being helplessly dragged away on the floor of your car. I'm actually surprised you think I can do this. To what do I owe this stirring expression of faith?"

"Until the other night, you were renowned for your thefts. All of London has been astonished by your ability to slip in and out of people's homes without being detected. If I hadn't interrupted you, the night would have ended very differently."

"You're right. And if our paths had not crossed, just how, exactly, would you get the five thousand galleons you claim to so desperately need?"

"I don't know. I suppose I would have been forced to steal it on my own."

She was serious, he realized, looking at her in amazement.

"You must know that I have stolen before – that I have even been jailed for it." Her gaze fell to the miss of wrinkles she had inflicted upon her skirts and she gave a small, self-conscious laugh. "Surely you haven't managed to miss all of the furtive whispers about me and my tawdry background this evening, Mr Malfoy. Our encounter at Mr Chadwick's has had the unfortunate effect of thrusting me into forefront of London's gossip."

"I don't pay attention to gossip, Miss Granger," Draco told her. "It is a vile sport that doesn't interest me."

His eyes were dark and filled with emotion. There was anger swirling within their depths, and something more, a deeper, rawer sentiment she could not readily identify.

"Besides," he added, shrugging, "whatever they say about you cannot be nearly as bad as what they are saying about me. That is, unless I missed the part where you committed theft, abduction, and murder all on the same night."

"You didn't murder anyone."

"You are the only one who knows that."

"Oliver knows as well. So does Flynn."

"I can't tell you how comforting I find that. I am sure that if I am ever captured, the courts will find the testimony of a decrepit old man who probably can't see past his nose and an urchin thief most compelling."

"Oliver is not decrepit, and Flynn is no longer a thief. And I would also testify on your behalf."

"Forgive me if I find that less than reassuring, given that you are the one who is threatening to expose me."

"I don't want to expose you, Mr Malfoy. I just need the money."

"Blackmail is an ugly practice, Miss Granger, whatever instigates it. And I'm afraid I don't respond well to being threatened."

"There you are!" Lavender's voice cut through the tension between them like a silvery bell, startling Hermione. "We've been looking everywhere for you, Hermione."

Draco adopted an air of polite amusement as he watched her sisters cross the terrace toward them in a rustling swish of silk and satin.

"Lavender and Pavarti, may I present to you Mr Malfoy," Hermione said, feeling guilty as she awkwardly rose from the bench. "Mr Malfoy, these are my sisters, Mrs Harding and Mrs Maitland," she added to Draco, feeling hopelessly ill at ease.

"a pleasure to meet you, Mr Malfoy," said Lavender, smiling.

"And for me also," added Pavarti.

"Forgive me for stealing your lovely sister away from the ballroom, but I thought she might prefer the cool quiet of the garden while she talked to me about the important work of her refuge house," explained draco smoothly. "I had no idea the running an asylum for the unfortunate could be so costly."

"You can rest assured that whatever amount you donate, Hermione will be sure to put it to good use." Lavender smiled at her sister.

Pavarti smiled in agreement. "She has always been very careful when it comes to money – much more so than anyone else in our family."

Draco cast a faintly sceptical look at Hermione. "Indeed."

"Are you ready to leave yet, Hermione?" asked Lavender. "I don't mean to interrupt your conversation with Mr Malfoy, but Harry has summoned the car –"

"Actually, your sister and I had just finished out discussion, and I was about to escort her back into the ballroom," Draco interjected. He gallantly offered Hermione his arm. "Shall we, Miss Granger?'

Reluctantly, Hermione took his arm and permitted him to walk her and her sisters slowly back into the oppressively perfumed heat of the ballroom.

"It was a pleasure to meet you and hear all about the noble work you are doing, Miss Granger," Draco added, holding her hand against his arm. "I cannot help but be inspired by your commitment t helping the less fortunate, and by the extraordinary lengths to which you are willing to go to ensure that those who so desperately need your assistance are able to get it. It is really quite moving."

He was mocking her again, Hermione realized, feeling angry and desperate. She tried to extract her hand from his grip.

"In fact, I am so moved by your concern for the poor that I would like to do whatever I can to help you," Draco continued, keeping her hand firmly upon his arm. "If you give me a few days, I shall arrange for that donation we discussed. Hopefully it will be sufficient to take care of all your immediate expenses."

Hermione eyed him uncertainly. Had Mr Malfoy just agreed to give her the entire five thousand galleons?

His expression was maddeningly contained, making it impossible for her to discern whether he was being truthful or merely toying with her.

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy," she said stiffly, trying to pull her hand away. "I am most grateful."

"It is I who am grateful to you," he assured her, still holding her fast. "After all, if you are able to reform even the most hardened and lost of souls at your house of refuge, it would seem there is hope for all of us."

His gaze was dark and unfathomable. But Hermione knew he was mocking her. After all, she had just revealed herself to be no better than he, or any of the others who threatened and stole to get what they wanted.

"You're too kind," she managed tautly, finally jerking her hand free from his grasp.

"It was also a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Harding and Mrs Maitland,' continued Draco, bowing slightly to Lavender and Pavarti. "I do hope I have the honour of seeing you both again." He smiled at them and turned away, retreating back toward the doors leading to the terrace.

"Mr Malfoy seemed very nice," remarked Lavender later as they drove home in their car.

"And it seems he is going to make a rather large donation," Pavarti added, excited for Hermione.

'That's splendid," declared Harry. "So you see, Hermione, it was worth it for us to drag you to this affair after all."

"Maybe now you'll be encouraged and attend more of them," Ron suggested.

Hermione nodded and sank back against her seat, exhausted.

She had only done what was necessary to protect her family, she told herself as the car rattled through the night. It was wrong – she understood that.

Unfortunately, sometimes the line between right and wrong was difficult to distinguish.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. The Main characters belong to JK Rowling and the plot and the rest of the characters belong to Karyn Monk. I only brought the 2 together.**_

He exhaled a long, hot breath and hesitated before taking another, knowing it would be stale and reeking of camphor.

He wished to hell Mrs Pembroke's house elf had not been quiet so diligent in her application of the foul-smelling compound, which was supposed to keep moths from attacking the woollen clothes and furs that had been relegated to that wardrobe for the summer. He began to count, timing how long he could go without air. Boredom had driven him to practice this trick while he waited, and he was actually becoming quite good at it. He flexed his fingers a half dozen times, fanning and rippling the appendages like a pianist. Then he slowly rotated his wrists, his shoulders, his neck, encouraging the flow of blood to the stiff, aching muscles. After his upper body had been sufficiently exercised he focused his attention on the lower, flexing the complex structure of bones in his feet and ankles, tightening and releasing the muscles of his calves and thighs, shifting his weight from one hip to the other in an effort to ease the tension that had mounted over the hours in his back. He wanted to crack the wardrobe door to let in a hint of cooler air, but his unyielding discipline would not permit it.

Victory was in the details.

It was a lesson his father had taught him, and it was a lesson he head learned well. The door to the guest room he had chosen could open at any time, as Miss Granger had so aptly demonstrated several nights earlier, revealing some earnest house elf or footman who had been directed to fetch something, or to prepare the chamber for an unexpected guest, or to open the window to create more ventilation in the night's stifling summer heat. If a servant noticed the door to the wardrobe was ajar, that might entice him or her to walk over and inspect it.

Better to endure the heat.

His lungs were burning now, protesting their lack of oxygen. A painful band of pressure cinched his body, creating a pounding of hot blood in his face and skull as he fought the impulse to breath. He could feel the veins of his heart against the muscled wall of his chest, the painful pleas of his rib cage as it struggled to fill itself. _Breathe_, his body urged, begging him to succumb to his weakness. His head was pounding and his ears rang with the sick, dizzying pressure of his lungs and veins and arteries. The darkness was getting heavier and he could no longer hear anything beyond a distant roar.

Just a few more seconds. Just a few more…

His body contorted like the lash of a whip and his mouth flew open, greedily inhaling a long draft of the wardrobe's sweltering air. He sucked it in quickly, efficiently, silently. After a moment, his lungs sufficiently sated, he sat back once again, no longer focused on the musty heat or the uncomfortable lack of space. He had managed to push himself beyond his previous limit without taking a breath.

It was a good sign.

He shifted his head from side to side, releasing the tension in his neck and upper spin, then held himself perfectly still, listening. It had been at least an hour since Mr and Mrs Pembroke had departed in their car. In that time the servants had regulated themselves to the tasks that were required of them before their employers returned. Mrs Pembroke's maid had likely tidied her mistress's bedroom, straightening up and putting away all the brushes and pins and pots of cosmetics that had been pulled out to make her presentable. She had then probably arranged Mrs Pembroke's dresser, turned down her bed, laid out her night clothes, and put out the lamps. The evening was sufficiently hot that a fire would not be needed, so that had ended her responsibilities for the evening – at least until her mistress returned. She would be summoned again at three or four in the morning to light the lamps, help her mistress take of her gown, unpin her hair, and remove and put away her jewellery. Until then she would join the other members of the household downstairs in the kitchen, where they would share a meal, drink a little wine or fire whisky, and gossip voraciously about their employers.

It was time for him to go to work.

He silently pushed open the wardrobe door, listening carefully. He heard nothing except the distant sound of raucous laughter. Obviously the servants had opened the wine. Good. He extracted himself from the wardrobe and stood a moment, letting his body adjust so the sudden profusion of space. One he was certain he could move without stumbling, he stole along the richly patterned carpet and went to the door. He turned the handle slowly, carefully, preparing for a squeaking protest from either the knob itself or from the hinges on which the door rested. But some diligent servant had kept the hardware well oiled, and the door swung open in the cooperative quiet.

He crept along the hallway to Mrs Pembroke's bedroom and pressed his ear against the door. Silence. He glanced down at the narrow strip of space beneath the door and the floor. Darkness. He laid his hand on the door handle and carefully eased the door open, hoping that the same conscientious servant had doused the hinges of this one with oil as well. They had.

He slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he went directly to the window drapes, opened them, unlocked the window, and then quietly eased it open. Because of the Dark Shadow's activities many of the wealthiest households in London had recently taken to locking their windows at night, despite the oppressive summer heat, as a way of protecting themselves. But the days were long and stifling, and since it would be unendurable to do otherwise, the windows remained open them. That gave him ample opportunity to slip inside before evening fell, and find some out-of-the-way niche in which he could hide. No one suspected the Dark Shadow might actually be lurking within their home for hours before he actually stole anything.

He glanced down at the narrow balcony below the window with its handsome stone balustrade, and the one after that, quickly assessing how he would creep along them to get to the Corinthian column that rose along the side of the front entrance. Once he reached it he would climb down, then jump below the street level to the area just in front of the kitchen door. Hidden from view he would remove his mask and cap and don the expensive hat and coat he had left wrapped in a bundle in the corner. Then he would light a cigar and calmly walk home, looking like nothing more than a perfectly respectable gentleman out for a stroll on a hot summer evening.

He moved to Mrs Pembroke's dressing table, which was now bathed in the faint wash of moonlight streaming in through the window. An elegant arrangement of crystal jars and bottles were neatly grouped beside an engraved sterling silver brush, mirror, and comb set. No jewellery chest. Unperturbed, he began to methodically search each or her drawers.

Nothing.

Growing slightly irritated, he looked about the room. It wasn't on her night table, or on the elegantly carved writing desk situated in one corner of the room. Obviously his thefts were having an effect on how the rich ladies of London stored their precious baubles. He stalked over to the bed and felt under the mattress. Nothing.

He dropped to his knees and swept his arm beneath the bedstead, searching. It wasn't there.

He stood and gazed about the room, trying to think where else Mrs Pembroke might have hidden her jewellery chest before going out. The excessively carved doors of her wardrobe caught his attention. _Of course. _She probably thought no one would think to search for jewellery in that ornate monstrosity. He moved toward it swiftly, eager to find the magnificent ruby-and0diamond necklace she had been wearing the previous night at the Marston's ball. He knew she and her husband were only attending a small dinner party on this particular evening. He was counting on her vanity to have kept her from wearing the very same jewellery. No self-respecting woman of affluence wanted people to think he husband could only afford to give her one decent necklace. He grasped the handle of the wardrobe and silently eased it open.

A pair of booted feet rammed into his stomach, sending him flying like an arrow.

"Good evening," drawled his attacker. "I was beginning to worry that maybe you weren't coming after all."

He inhaled a deep breath, fighting to master the pain in his gut, and looked up to see a veritable duplicate of himself standing over him. The man's face and hair were completely hidden by a black mask and cap. The rest of his clothes were dark making him barely a shadow in the thinly lit room.

"I believe you are looking for this." Hiss attacker reached into his own pocket and withdrew Mrs Pembroke's glittering ruby necklace. "And no wonder – it really is a spectacular piece. As someone who also appreciates the splendour of fine jewellery. I must commend you on your exceptional taste. I imagine it was at the Marston's ball that you first noticed it, wasn't it?"

He regarded his assailant warily, saying nothing. He was not about to reveal himself because this reflection of him felt like chatting.

"You've been rather busy these past few months, haven't you?" the man continued. "Breaking into houses all over London, slipping in and out like a ghost. It's really been quite impressive. Unfortunately, however, your career as a jewel thief is over." He dropped the necklace into his pocket, then pulled a length of rope from the other one. "Now be a good burglar and give me your hands."

He sat up slowly, obligingly holding his fists together at the wrists. His captor bent to secure them with a rope.

Enabling him to smash both his fists into the arrogant prick's face.

The blow was hard, but so was his assailant. His head snapped back as his hands shot forward, grabbing him by his shoulders. A fist drove into his jaw, cracking his teeth together with such force he staggered into Mrs Pembroke's writing desk. The delicately carved piece collapsed, smashing everything upon it. The acrid smell of kerosene from a shattered oil lamp filled the room. He knew in a moment or to the servants would come running. His assailant was on him again, growling with rage. He fought him hard, but his attacker was powerful and equally determined. They both went crashing to the floor, each scrambling to gain the advantage. Agitated voices were in the corridor now. He clawed ferociously at his would-be captor, tearing off his back cap and mask in the process.

"Malfoy!" the word escaped his mouth before he could stop it.

Draco's hand clamped around the Dark Shadow's wrist like a manacle, refusing to let him escape. "You can't get away," he grated out furiously. "It ends here."

The dark shadow relaxed slightly, his shoulders slumped in apparent defeat. He finally had him, Draco thought, triumphant. It was over. The rush of adrenaline that had filled him a moment earlier began to seep away, making him acutely aware of every aching muscle and bone. He really was getting too goddamn old for this. Now he had to somehow explain his presence to the servants…

A blade whipped across his hand, slicing open his glove and the skin beneath. His hand contracted in a spasm of pain, causing him to let go.

"It's over for you, Malfoy," the man snarled. "Not me." He drove his knee with savage force into Draco's testicles.

Stars exploded all around him. For a moment he thought he would vomit. Instead he collapsed to the floor beside the bed, curled up like an infant and equally helpless.

The Dark Shadow pulled Mrs Pembroke's necklace from Draco's pocket and flew to the window. "Stop, thief!" yelled one of the servants from the doorway, unable to see Draco as he pointed a quivering wand at the figure in the window.

The escaping thief did not hesitate. He hurled his blade at the man, sending the speeding shaft directly into the poor servant's chest.

The wand fell to the ground and a shower on sparks rained from the air as the injured servant crumpled to the floor.

The Dark Shadow did not look back. With the agile grace of a cat he leapt over the windowsill and disappeared from Draco's sight.

Draco looked over to see the groaning man lying upon the floor, a scarlet stain weeping through the white of his shirt. There was nothing he could do for him, he realized bleakly, except pray the other servants would be able to fetch a healer quickly. He had to get the hell out of there himself, before he was arrested for murder.

He dragged himself off the floor and staggered to the window, then heaved a leg over the sill.

"O, my god – _help!"_ shrieked a voice behind him as another servant ventured fearfully into the room. _"Murder!Murder!"_

Draco did not look back. He moved clumsily along the narrow stone balcony in front of the window, then grunted as he shifted to the next one. He awkwardly made his way down part of the column beside the door, then gave up on the thing and jumped. His body crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, sending a streak of pain up one knee, he forced himself to get up and quickly limped down the street, the rounded a corner.

He did not know which direction the Dark Shadow had taken, and at that point, he didn't give a damn. He began to thread his way through the dimly lit streets, listening as the agitated shouting and screaming behind him grew fainter.

He would head toward Drury Lane, he decided, breathing heavily. It was always noisy and crowded at that time with dozens of people spilling in and out of pubs. No one would notice him there, not even in his current unkempt, staggering condition. If anything, he would fit right in. he would buy a drink and wait a while before going and finding a place to apparate back home. The bar tender would give him at least some semblance of an alibi for part of the evening, should the need arise.

He thought it unlikely that either of the two servants who had burst into the room had seen his face clearly, but prudence demanded that he take precautions just the same. He had to be careful. The dark Shadow he recognized him, which meant the bastard had the advantage.

Now he was the one who would be hunted.

_**So what did you think? R/R **_

_**Thanks**_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"… and then he leaps out the window, leaving poor Beale drowning in his own blood."

Inspector Turner stared grimly at the enormous reddish-brown stain that had saturated the intricately woven Persian carpet of Mrs Pembroke's bedroom. "Go on."

"Well, it was awful dark in the room, but I could see Beale was done for," the house elf continued excitedly. "'Hang on Beale,' I says, just thinkin' to give him a bit of a lift—I mean, there's no sense in thinkin' you're a croaker just because you are—', 'its only a scratch!'—and he looks at me and say, 'I don't think so, tom—I think I'm done for.' So I kneels down beside him and wonders what should I do for him—I mean, if I pulls out the blade, will that make him feel better, or snuff him quicker?

"And while I'm thinking on that, he groans a little not much, mind ye, no more than if you had the collywobbles, and then he grabs my hand and says 'This is it Tom, I know it, and there's something you must make right for ne.' 'Anything', I says, and I'm feeling right sad now, because Beale was always fair to me since I come here, and I liked him well enough, even though some of the other elf's used to laugh about him behind his back and call him an old lobcock. 'I'll do anything for you,' I says, and I means it. And he's looking at me real close now, his eyes all wide and not blinking like them dolls you can buy—little girls go mad for them on account they look horrible, like some sort of mad thing, and who wants eyes that\s always looking at you anyways, even when your stark-ballock naked?"

Turner struggled for patience, reminding himself that the elf had just held another dying brutally injured elf in his arms. It was to be expected that such a horrific experience might make him ramble a little. "What did Beale say?" he asked, trying to guide Tom back to the relevant part of his story.

"He says, 'Make sure they catch the Dark Shadow and hang him for me,' and his hand is all tight and clammy now, and them eyes of his are big as beets, and I know he's going to kick it soon, so I says, 'I will, Beale, you just worry about staying alive till the healer comes.' 'No healer can fix me.' He says, and I say, 'it ain't all that bad,' and he says, 'You're a good boy Tom, but a bad liar,' and I kind of smile at that, because even though he's bleeding to death he's still making a joke, and I'm thinking maybe I'm wrong, maybe he's going to be all right after all. I've heard about people who was lying in their coffin, dead as a herring, and just as they're about to be dropped in the ground they sit up all of a sudden and say 'Here now, what's this about?'"

"What else did Beale say about the Dark Shadow?" Turner decided if he let the young elf ramble any more, he'd never get on with his investigation.

He had been dragged from his bed at two o'clock in the morning to investigate this latest crime scene of the Dark Shadow. It was now nearly dawn. He was tired, he was hungry, and he was infuriated that the Dark Shadow had managed yet another robbery and murder while he had been lying in bed dreaming, for Merlin's sake. It made him and the entire Auror force look like fools.

That was a perception he did not tolerate well.

"Why, nothing." Tom frowned, somewhat miffed at having his colourful account interrupted. "He just said to make sure that they got him and hanged him."

"Did he describe him for you?"

He vigorously scratched his head, thinking. "No."

"did he tell you anything about him that might give us some clue as to his identity?"

He shrugged his skinny shoulders. "Not that I remember."

"Thank you, Tom." Turner was suddenly anxious to be rid of the stale-smelling elf, with his blood-stained pillow case and his talk of beet-sized eyes and strange-looking dolls. "I'll let you know if I need to speak with you again."

"Don't you want to hear the rest of my story?"

"I presume that then Beale took his last breath and died. Isn't that right?"

"He just kept staring' at me, and I kept trying to tell him it was going to be fine, and then he got all quiet. But his eyes never closed. They just kept looking at me." Tom's voice was hushed as he finished fearfully, "Like he was trying to tell me something from beyond this world."

"Often when people die their eyes don't close," Turner assured him. "It is entirely normal."

The young house elf glanced nervously at the enormous bloodstain on the carpet. "Do you think he's still here—watching us? Especially since he died so violent. Do you think his spirit is waiting to see if I'll do like I said?"

"I don't think so, Tom." Turner felt as if he were talking to a child. "The best thing we can do for Beale is to find the Dark Shadow and bring him to justice, so that his untimely death can be avenged. Is there anything more you can tell me that you think might be of help in this case?"

Tom shrugged. "I didn't get a very good look at him."

"Was he tall or short?" Maybe there was one small additional piece of information he could extract from the elf that might help. "Thin or fat? Moving quickly and easily like a young wizard, or slower and more stiffly?"

"He was tall enough, I guess—bit hard to tell, really, since he was kind of hunched over to get through the window. I wouldn't say he was thin, really, but I wouldn't say he was fat neither. More middling like. I didn't take no noticed of how he was moving, on account of the fact that I was more concerned with poor Beale."

"Of course. Thank you, Tom. If you think of anything else, I would appreciate it if you would contact me. Turner handed him his card.

Tom nodded glumly as he took the small white rectangle, clearly disappointed that his interview was over. "Yes, sir, Inspector Turner, sir. I will."

Turner turned his attention back to the overturned writing desk and the litter of broken glass, papers, pen, and ink surrounding it. It was not characteristic of the Dark Shadow to ransack a room. Typically the thief worked silently and left everything in perfect order, so that the owners of a home had no idea they had even been robbed until the next time the wife went searching through her jewellery box. This meant days often went by before anyone realized a crime had occurred. What the devil had caused him to start heaving over furniture?

"His hair was blonde."

Turner turned around, surprised to see that young Tom had not yet left the room. "Pardon me?"

"His hair was blonde—or white, anyway. It may have been dirty blonde."

"The Dark Shadow always wears a cap to cover his hair," Turner pointed out. Obviously the young elf was embellishing his story to gain a few more minutes of his attention.

'He wasn't wearing a cap."

Turner regarded him sceptically. "Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Sure as I'm standing here."

"Was he wearing a mask?"

"I ain't sure," Tom admitted. "It was dark, and he was already climbing out the window when I come running in. I didn't see his face. But I did see his head, and the hair on it looked blonde."

Turner considered this a moment. The Dark Shadow always wore a cap and mask—they were vital to concealing his identity. If it were, indeed, the Dark Shadow who had visited Mr Pembroke's house that night and murdered poor Beale, why on earth would he not be wearing a cap?

By the time turner had arrived at the house, Beale's body had already been moved to his bed by the elf's, who felt it wasn't decent to leave him lying sprawled upon Mrs Pembroke's bedroom floor. This well-meaning gesture had unfortunately meant that Turner was unable to see for himself exactly where and how Beale had fallen. But it was clear from the bloodstain that he had been injured and died near the door; there was no trail of blood to suggest that he had been stabbed somewhere else in the room and then staggered back to the door in an attempt to escape. Was there an altercation between the elf and the Dark Shadow before Beale was stabbed? That would explain the overturned furniture. But the other elves had described hearing a loud commotion in Mrs Pembroke's bedroom, which was what had instigated Beale to fetch the spare wand and go upstairs in the first place. Tom had said he had heard Beale yelling at the thief to stop just before the wand sent of sparks, suggesting that Beale had been stabbed before the wand went off. The Dark Shadow had then apparently climbed out the window and disappeared.

Leaving the question: What had happened that had caused him to heave over the desk and make so much noise in the first place?

A scrap of something dark peeking out from beneath Mrs Pembroke's bedstead suddenly caught his eye. He walked over and studied it, memorizing its location and arrangement before he actually picked it up. It was a black woollen cap. Plain, of common make, without any label inside to indicate either where it had been manufactured or purchased.

"Godalmithy—that's his, ain't it?" Tom stared at the cap in horror, as if he thought the Dark Shadow might somehow be hiding inside it.

Turner dropped to his knees and lifted the skirt of the heavy damask cover of the bed frame, lay a black ripple of fabric. He pulled it out and stared at the two small eyeholes cut into the center of a silk scarf.

"And his mask, too!" tom's face was chalk white. "Do you think Beale's ghost put them there, as a message?"

"I can assure you, whoever left these was of flesh and blood." Turner studied the two articles, wondering just what the hell he had found. It didn't make any sense.

Why on earth would the Dark Shadow remove his mask and cap and leave them lying there to be found?

"We've got him!" Auror Wilkins' burst through the door, his expression jubilant.

Turner stared at the young officer, stunned. "You caught the Dark Shadow?"

"No, but we found something that's going to lead us to him," Auror Wilkins amended, nearly quivering with excitement. "We found this on the ground outside. He must have dropped it while he was making his escape."

Turner set down the mask and cap on Mrs Pembroke's bed and took the white linen square from Auror Wilkins's hand. It was of an expensive make, precisely woven with an elegant trim of fine hemstitching around the edges. Clearly a gentleman's handkerchief.

Carefully embroidered into one corner in white thread was the initial _M_.

"All we have to do is find the man whose initial matches that, and we've got him!" declared Auror Wilkins, ecstatic.

"The last time I checked, Auror Wilkins, the law does not permit us to charge a man with murder based on the fact that we found a handkerchief bearing his initial somewhere in the vicinity of the crime scene," Turner pointed out/ "It is merely another clue in our case, which may or may not be of significance."

"It's his handkerchief," Wilkins insisted. "It hasn't been there long —it's too clean."

"It may be his," Turner allowed, "Or it may belong to someone who simply shares the same initial. It may have been mistakenly dropped by the Dark Shadow, or it may have been planted there by him in an attempt to confuse us." He studied the snowy piece of fabric, thinking. "It has been my observation over the years that criminals generally assume a method that follows a certain pattern. Sometimes it takes them a while to perfect their technique, but once they do, they tend to adhere to it. This is especially true in the case of criminals who achieve a degree of notoriety. They enjoy the public interest in them, and therefore they want to make sure the public knows that they are the ones who have committed a crime, and not someone else.

"Until recently, the Dark Shadow has always been meticulously careful during his break-ins, slipping in and out undetected, never leaving so much as a pin out of place. Now, suddenly, he is taking young women hostage, heaving furniture about, dropping personal articles, and murdering people. Don't you find that rather odd?"

"He's getting bolder, and that has made him sloppier," Wilkins argued. "He probably took off his mask and cap on account of the room being so hot and dark—he wanted to see better. Mrs Pembroke said that her jewellery box was hidden in the back of the wardrobe beneath a pile of clothes, while the key to it was hidden under her pillow. He probably got his dander up trying to find the key, and that's why he tossed her desk over once he realized it wasn't there."

"Perhaps," allowed Turner, unconvinced. "He also only took one item from her jewellery chest : a diamond-and-ruby necklace. But Mr Pembroke has attested that there were many other significant pieces of jewellery stored in the chest. Why didn't he take any of those as well?"

"He never takes everything," Wilkins reminded him. "That's part of how the thefts go undetected for so long. At first glance, it doesn't seem like anything is missing."

"But if he was already throwing over furniture and making a great deal of noise looking for either the chest or the key, then he knew once he found the chest that there was no possibility of his visit going unnoticed. He might as well have emptied the entire box and tossed it on the floor. Instead he closed it up and carefully placed it back in the wardrobe, with all of Mrs Pembroke's garments neatly folded on top of it once more. Why go to such trouble—maybe he'd already nicked the necklace and put the box back, and then he knocked over the desk when Beale came with the wand," supplied Tom. "Maybe they had a bit of a scuffle before he stabbed him."

"All of the elves have said that they first knew the house was being robbed because of a loud crashing sound coming from the upstairs. That was long before Beale arrived waving the wand. Also, Beale was stabbed in the chest, and when you came in, which you say was just a moment after the wand went off, you found him lying on his back, by the doorway. If Beale came into the room and wrestled with the Dark Shadow over here, where the desk is, and then got stabbed, how did he come to be lying way over there by the doorway?"

"Maybe he got stabbed as he was trying to run away," Wilkins suggested.

"Then logic suggests he would have fallen on his front," argued Turner, "not his back."

"Maybe he was staggering backward with the knife in him, and then just fell back as well," theorized Tom.

"There is no blood in any other part of the room other than by the doorway."

"It's possible the blood hadn't leaked out enough to land on the floor until he got over there," Wilkins reflected.

Turner clenched his jaw, resisting the impulse to raise his hands and massage his aching temples. It was either ridiculously late or ungodly early, depending on how one wanted to look at it. He was exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to go home, collapse on his bed, and get a couple of hours sleep. But the Dark Shadow had killed again, which meant sleep was out of the question. After he had finished his inspection there he would go directly to the Ministry and report to Chief Inspector Holloway, his superior officer.

Chief Inspector Holloway would not be pleased.

Until the murder of MR Haywood several nights earlier, the newspapers had taken great pleasure in writing about the Dark Shadow as if he were some kind of romantic, almost heroic figure. They had delighted in his every move, reporting on his daring break-ins as if he were a character to be celebrated instead of reviled. They emphasized the fact that he only robbed the extravagantly wealthy. Some even suggested that he might actually use his stolen proceeds to help the poor, although there was no evidence to support this theory. That idea had immediately won over London's lower classes, who always enjoyed then antics of a good thief. They despised the rich anyway, so if someone was nipping a gaudy piece of jewellery here and there from them, that was fine entertainment. They also enjoyed the fact that the police seemed blatantly helpless to catch this exceptionally clever criminal.

All that had changed the night Mr Haywood was killed.

"Thank you for your time, Tom," Turner said, dismissing him again. "You know how to reach me if you think of anything else that might be helpful in this case."

"Yes, sir." Tom cast the room one last glance, shuddered, then hurried out the door.

"Wilkins, I would like you and the other officers here to finish searching every room in the house. Once you have done that, I want you to start knocking on doors. Ask every neighbour on the street if they saw or heard anything suspicious last night. Check all of their windows and doors for signs of forced entry. It's possible he broke into another house near here and hid there a while after fleeing this home. Have a team of officers search the back gardens, laneways, and carriage houses of the surrounding area, looking for any signs of disturbance. I want to know about anything unusual, even if it's just a single crushed flower in a garden. Understand?"

"Yes, sir, Inspector. What shall I tell Mrs Pembroke about her bedroom? She is most upset about its condition, and has been asking when she can send up the elves to clean it."

"Tell her I expect to be just a few more minutes. I'll come down and speak to her and her husband once I have finished here."

"Very good, sir."

Turner closed the door after him. Then he moved to the center of the room. His gaze swept slowly over the havoc-stricken bedroom, methodically taking note of everything he saw. He stared at the shattered kerosene lamp lying amidst a clutter of kerosene-soaked writing paper, a ruined assortment of pens, jars, a broken ceramic figurine, and a spilled bottle of black ink. His gaze moved to the open window, where the Dark Shadow had escaped into the night without the benefit of either a mask or a cap. He studied the enormous, magnificently carved wardrobe, its two massive doors still yawning open. Then he stared at the mask, cap, and neatly embroidered handkerchief he had laid out on Mrs Pembroke's bed. Finally, he looked at the ugly, rust-coloured stain on the carpet.

He clenched his jaw, frustrated by the inconsistencies around him, he realized grimly. Since abduction and murder had become involved, the public was being whipped into a terrified frenzy by the newspapers, while the police force was being castigated as a bunch of buffoons. If he failed to capture the Dark Shadow quickly, he would be relegated to spending the rest of his career investigating linen thefts up in Camden Town. He had to find the bastard before he killed again.

He frowned as he looked at Mrs Pembroke's immaculately arranged bed.

Mr Pembroke had told him that she had hidden the key to her jewellery chest beneath her pillow. The chest had been opened without force, so obviously the Dark Shadow had managed to find it. Yet the bed showed no sign of having been touched. If the Dark Shadow was heaving over furniture in frustration, why would he have been so careful as he searched Mrs Pembroke's bed? Perhaps he had found the key, opened the chest, the returned the key to its hiding place and carefully arranged the covers once more. But the made no sense if he had already broken the desk. Confused by this, Turner drew down the heavy crimson coverlet and lifted up the pillows, searching for the key.

It wasn't there.

Bemused, he pulled up the covers from the rest of the bed. Then he looked under the bed, beneath the mattress, and through the debris upon the carpet. He searched every surface and every drawer. He rifled through her wardrobe. Finally he turned to the jewellery box, which was now sitting upon the bureau.

Mr Pembroke had reported that he had found the box at the back of the wardrobe, exactly where Mr Pembroke had hidden it. The only difference was that it was unlocked.

Turner knew the Dark Shadow typically left everything exactly as he found it. But on that night he had knocked a desk over, either before or after he had found the key. Knowing elves were coming, he had not bothered to lock the chest as he returned it to the cupboard. He had, however, taken the time to cover it neatly beneath the garments that had been on it before.

That struck Turner as odd.

What was more bizarre was that after rummaging through the bed and retrieving the key, he had proceeded to neatly make the bed up again.

If he hadn't yet knocked over the desk, why bother rearranging the bed when he knew he was going to momentarily return the key to its hiding place? And if he had knocked over the desk before finding the key, then why start fussing about arranging coverlets when he knew servants were on their way?

Unable to make any sense of it, he picked up the handkerchief Wilkins had found. Could the Dark Shadow really have been so careless as to leave his monogrammed handkerchief lying on the ground? Turner doubted it, but at that point, he had little else to go on.

He would begin by asking Mrs Pembroke on what occasions she had recently worn her ruby necklace. Then he would contact the hosts of those parties and request their guest lists. That would enable him to determine if anyone bearing the last initial _M_ had recently had the opportunity to admire Mrs Pembroke's necklace.

He might not be able to arrest a man on the strength of a handkerchief, but he could certainly have him watched.

* * *

Draco stared out the window of his study into the rain-drenched night, fighting the silken threads of pain filtering through his head. _Not tonight_, he commanded silently. He needed to think, and he couldn't think if he was sprawled on his bed in the dark, immobilized with pain. He raised his palms to his forehead and pressed hard, trying to squeeze the advancing pain out, or at least hold it at bay for a while. It wavered, not retreating, but not getting any worse either. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. No dizziness. No nausea. That was good. Maybe it wouldn't progress beyond a dull ache.

He could tolerate that.

He went to his desk and poured himself a fire whiskey. He knew it might cloud his mind a little, but it would also dull the pain in his head, and at that moment that seemed more important. Besides, he wasn't going out anywhere. His scuffle with the Dark Shadow the previous evening and his subsequent crash to the ground as he escaped had left him stiff and sore. That, combined with the cut to his left hand and his throbbing healing shoulder, was making him feel every wretched minute of his 25 years. He had thought he was getting too old for this sort of thing. Until his fight with the Shadow, he had not realized just how old he really was.

He took a swallow of fire whiskey, disgusted with himself.

There was a hesitant rap upon his study door.

"Come in."

"Forgive me, sir, for disturbing you," apologized Telford, his butler, his expression sober. "But there is a young woman here to see you. A Miss Granger. She says it is a matter of some urgency."

Draco had wondered whether or not she would come. By early that evening all of London had had a chance to read about the Dark Shadow's latest robbery and murder in grisly. Miss Granger would have been horrified to learn how Mrs Pembroke's house elf had been killed as he bravely tried to protect Mrs Pembroke's precious jewels from the infamous Dark Shadow. Draco was amazed the Miss Granger had still sought him out, believing him to be a cold-blooded murderer.

Either she was extraordinarily stupid, or her need for five thousand galleons was even more desperate than he realized.

"Send Miss Granger to the drawing room, Telford," Draco instructed. "I'll see her there."

"Unfortunately, Mrs Malfoy is using the drawing room at the moment." Telford shifted uneasily on his feet before delicately adding: "I don't believe she is feeling well enough to receive Miss Granger."

"what is she doing?"

"She believes she is having an argument with Mr Malfoy, your father, sir. At times she is rather loud."

"I see. Did she eat anything this evening, Telford?"

"No, my lord. I set her place in the dining room, as usual, and as you have instructed, I also set one for your father. Mrs Malfoy appeared to be in fine spirits until I served the first course."

"What happened?"

"She began to imagine she was having a disagreement with your father. Apparently, she believed he was refusing to eat, because he didn't like what she was being served. Mrs Malfoy accused him of being far too set in his ways, and worried he might be insulting Griffin. I tried to calm her by saying I would bring Mr Malfoy something else more to his liking, but Mrs Malfoy would not hear of it and left the room. She has been alone in the drawing room arguing with him ever since."

"What did you serve her, Telford?"

"Boiled breast of mutton and caper sauce. Griffin assured me it was one of her specialties."

"My father disliked mutton."

Telford's expression fell. "forgive me, sir. Had I known, I could have advised Griffin to prepare something else. Griffin is most anxious to please you, sir, and she thought she was making something that Mrs Malfoy would enjoy."

"It's all right, Telford, neither you nor Griffin could possibly have known. Kindly show Miss Granger in here, then go and ask Griffin to prepare a tray for my mother of tea, cheese, fruit, and a few slices of cold chicken or beef. Then tell my mother I will be up to see her shortly, and say that I'll be most displeased if she and my father are still arguing when I get there.

"Yes, sir." He gave Draco a small bow and hurried from the room.

He turned to the window and took another swallow of fire whiskey, feeling unbearably tired. When his father died and Draco had first inherited his title and the crushing responsibility that went with it, he had believed that if he could just hold on for a year or two, eventually it would get easier. But it never had. There were fleeting moments where things had seemed more bearable, at least from a financial point of view. But the exhausting weight of responsibility had never abated.

He had just come to accept there was no choice but to carry it.

"Miss, Granger, sir," announced Telford, interrupting Draco's thoughts as he ushered Hermione into the study.

"Thank you Telford. That will be all."

His personal house elf bowed and closed the door.

Hermione seemed smaller and more fragile to Draco as he turned to look at her. Her face was grave and pale, her brown-and-gold eyes wide and haunted. There was an almost ethereal quality to her, like a lovely wisp of snow that would disintegrate the instant it touched anything of substance. Fear of him had reduced her to this condition, he realized. On the night she had stumbled upon him in Mr Chadwick's home, she had exuded an extraordinary strength and will as she had helped him to escape. Now she was all but trembling in his presence. He had hoped that with what little she knew of him, she might have held some fragment of faith that he was not a murderer. But the dread in her eyes told him otherwise.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He washed it away by draining his glass.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he said. "I trust you have come for your money?"

"I'm so sorry." Her voice was small and raw. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"That depends." Merlin, had the foolish girl reported him to the Aurors his mind began to race. He could not stay here if the Aurors were on their way to arrest him. He knew they wouldn't believe anything he had to say. But if he suddenly disappeared and left his mother in the care of the elves, he knew the effect on her would be devastating. "What exactly, Miss Granger, have you done that warrant my forgiveness?"

Hermione stared at him helplessly. His expression was composed, but she wasn't fooled by it. She had known too much anguish in her own life to not be able to recognize it in others. He was haunted by the atrocity of his crime, just as she had known he would be. But in her mind, she was as much responsible for the death of Mr Pembroke's elf as he was.

She was the one who had forced Mr Malfoy to steal that night.

"I never should have asked you for money," she began haltingly. "But I was desperate, and I thought you would be able to help me. It never occurred to me that you wouldn't be able to easily afford it."

He raised a brow and said nothing.

"Once you told me you didn't have the money, I shouldn't have suggested that you steal it. I don't think I thought it through—or maybe I just thought that you were so skilled at stealing, that it would be easy for you. I was being foolish, of course, and selfish. Now, because of me, you have been forced to kill a man." Her expression was haunted. "Can you ever forgive me?"

He stared at her, dumbfounded. This was not what he had expected. But then, Miss Granger never seemed to do or say what he expected. He exhaled a tense breath, permitting himself to relax slightly.

Apparently he did not have to flee his home just yet.

"I know you didn't intend to kill that man, Mr Malfoy." Hermione wished he would say something. "If anyone is to be held responsible, it is I. I should never have forced you into a situation you had no recourse but to defend yourself." She looked away.

Draco clenched his jaw in frustration. How much could he explain to her? She already believed that he was the Dark Shadow. He could not tell her the truth without exposing all the sordid details of his past. He had fought too long and hard to raise himself above his mistakes to start unveiling them to some woman he barely knew. Besides, she had no reason to believe anything he told her.

"Am I correct, then, in assuming that you are not going to turn me over to the authorities?" he enquired dryly.

Hermione looked at him in surprise. "Do you really think that I would do that?"

"Forgive me if I offended you. It's just that the other night you indicated that unless I paid you five thousand galleons, you would report me to the police."

"I have no desire to see you sent to prison—or worse, tried for murder. But after last night, surely you must realize that you cannot continue to steal. Either someone else will be harmed, or you will be caught. No jewels are worth such a terrible price."

"Thank you, Miss Granger, for your advice."

His tone was mocking, the chiselled lines of his face hard. He didn't think she understood, she realized. While Mr Malfoy knew some of the details of her past, he didn't have any inkling of what that past meant. He had spent his entre life safely ensconced in the silk-covered walls of his elegant home, and undoubtedly also within the grand halls and endless corridors of some magnificent ancestral estate. According to his friend Mr. Zambini, he had experience some financial problems after his father's death but evidently not enough to destroy his family's wealth. He has probably started stealing out of what he deemed necessity.

As Hermione stared at him, looking every bit the arrogant aristocrat in his elegant tailored clothes, with his richly appointed furnishings and his perfectly deferential elf's bowing around him, anger began to pulse through her. He had no comprehension of what necessity was. Necessity was being hungry that you felt weak and sick. It was being forced to eat a mouldy crust of bread or rotten, half-eaten apple you found lying in the gutter, and be grateful there was something in your stomach. Necessity was being terrified to go back to your filthy dark flat because you hadn't managed to beg or steal anything of consequence that day, and you knew your father was going to beat you until you could barely move. Necessity was being forced to stand before a gaping, jeering crowd and slowly lift your skirts-

"Miss Granger? Are you all right?"

She blinked and looked at him. Everything was suddenly very white.

"Merlin, sit down." He wrapped a strong arm around her and helped her over to the sofa. "Here, put your head down—you look like you're going to faint."

Hermione permitted him to seat her, to lay his gentle hands her shoulders and ease her forward, until her face was staring at the simple gray pleats of her tailored shirt. Her mind reeling, she fought to separate the past from the present. She focused on the warmth of his touch across her shoulders, the steady sound of his breathing as he leaned into her, the highly polished sheen of his expensive black boots. His scent was all around her, a wonderfully clean, masculine smell, soap and leather and a hint of fire whisky. Suddenly he released her and walked away, she felt chilled and alone. But he was back a moment later, kneeling beside her, holding a glass of something fragrant to her lips.

"Take a sip of this," he urged, helping her to slowly sit up again. "Not too fast, though. It's strong."

She didn't flinch as the fire whisky burned a path down her throat. She took another swallow, then raised her gaze to him.

"Fell better?" he asked, setting the glass on a table.

She nodded, embarrassed. "Yes. Thank you."

Draco stayed kneeling beside her. The sun-washed fragrance of her was intoxicating his senses, a light, crisp scent of wildflowers and orange. She struck him as exceptionally lovely in the honeyed light of his study, with her creamy silk skin and those wide, brown eyes flecked with amber. A few coppery strands of hair had escaped the confines of her hat to play teasingly against the paleness of her neck, giving her a sweetly dishevelled look. He found himself recalling the feel of her slender form pressing against him on the first night they met, her rib cage rising and falling within his embrace, the soft swell of her breasts grazing his arm, her firm buttocks pressed against his thighs.

Desire surged through him, hot and hard.

He rose abruptly and went to his desk, distancing himself from her. What the hell was the matter with him, for Merlin's sake? He poured himself a fire whisky, trying to focus. He recalled that on the night they had met he had expected her to swoon—in fact, he had even hoped for it. But she didn't. instead she had tried to help him, demonstrating a remarkable strength and courage. Nothing about her had struck him as fragile or weak on that night, even after he finally noticed her disability.

Yet soon after, she had been frightened enough to resort to blackmail, an act which she obviously found completely abhorrent.

"Tell me why you need the money, Hermione."

She regarded him warily. "I told you, it's for my refuge house."

"Don't play games with me. You are desperate for money, but you won't turn to your own family for it. Someone is threatening you, and I want to know who."

She looked away. "I can't tell you."

"Then I won't help you."

His reluctance to help her was understandable, Hermione realized. After all, he barely knew her, and she was asking for an enormous sum of money. But she hadn't gone there expecting him to suddenly hand her five thousand galleons. She had only wanted to apologize for her actions, and to ensure that he was not hurt.

"I understand," she said quietly. 'then we don't have anything more to discuss." She started to rise, acutely aware that her time was running out.

Draco crossed to her in two strides and sat her down again, forcing her to look at him.

"Listen to me," he began firmly. "I know those girls who have come to you for help have all kinds of filthy scum in their lives—vicious brutes who think women are nothing but a piece of property, to be used and tossed aside when they're of no more use to them. What you're doing to help those young women is admirable, Hermione, but it's also dangerous. Those men don't like having their women taken from them—even if it's the girl's choice. If you or one of the girls is being threatened, you have to go to the Aurors, now—do you hear?"

"You don't understand—"

Then tell me, damn it!"

His eyes were dark and filled with concern. She looked down at his enormous hands. They were strong hands, clean and smooth and well cared for, not rough and blackened and dirty like her father's. She stared in confusion at the pale bandage wrapped around his left hand. Blood had started to seep from the wound hidden beneath, its bright red essence suggested that the injury was still fresh. He was just a man, she reflected, and a coddled aristocrat at that. He might have had great success playing the role of an elite jewel thief, but he was a world apart from the brutal forces that had bred and shaped her. He could be injured. He could be killed.

He was no match for a vicious street fighter like Boney Buchan.

And neither was she.

"I cannot tell you," she said in a pained whisper. "I can't."

Draco regarded her incredulously. She was unbelievable. She limped about in her modest little outfits, all shy and reticent and looking like a strong gust of wind might blow her away. But when she decided to be stubborn, she called upon some hidden inner strength and held fast. It was incomprehensible that she was refusing to let him help her—or at least go to the bloody Aurors. But she was.

Whoever was demanding five thousand galleons had obviously terrified her into silence.

He cursed silently. He didn't need this. He had enough problems of his own. Ay any moment he could be arrested, or even murdered if whoever was running about playing the Dark Shadow decided he had become too great a nuisance to ignore. His mother had almost completely lost her grip in reality, and needed constant monitoring and protection. His sister and brother (I know that he doesn't have any siblings but in this story he does) required his financial support. And his incapacitating headaches were stripping away the precious time he needed to fortify his investments before his own mind disintegrated. He glared at Hermione, wishing to hell she had never stumbled into his life.

Had he not already assumed enough responsibility, for Merlin's sake?

"there you are!" exclaimed his mother suddenly, bursting into the room. "I've been looking everywhere for you, Draco. Wherever have you been hiding?"

Draco abruptly moved away from Hermione and stood. "I've been right here, Mother. Didn't Telford inform you I would come up to see you shortly?"

"Telford said that you were most upset to hear that your father and I had been arguing, and that's when I knew I had to find you and make you feel better."

Hermione watched in wonder as the light, silvery-haired woman lifted a pale hand to tenderly brush a lock of hair off Draco's forehead. She appeared to be in her late fifties, and she moved with the graceful confidence of a woman who had spent her entire life knowing she was both beautiful and treasured. She wore a magnificent evening gown of sapphire silk, which was a little loose and too wide in the skirts to be deemed fashionable, suggesting it had been in Mrs Malfoy's wardrobe for many years. A spectacular sapphire-and-diamond necklace was draped around her neck, and heavy matching earring sparkled from her ears. Her hands glittered with a profusion of rings, and an enormous diamond pin radiated from one shoulder. She looked as if she were dressed to attend the most extravagant of balls, and had decided to pile on as much of her jewellery as possible.

Was she the reason Mr Malfoy crept about London at night stealing jewels? Hermione wondered, astonished.

"Poor, sweet Draco," Mrs Malfoy cooed, "You mustn't worry when your father and I argue. That's what adults do, every now and then, when they are having a disagreement. It doesn't mean anything, dear. Your father and I care far too much for each other to let a little argument come between us. Besides," she added, her gray eyes twinkling with mischief, "eventually the poor man always comes to realize that I am right." She turned to Hermione and gasped.

"Oh, Draco, you haven't introduced me to your little friend. What a pretty thing she is, too, why, just look at all that lovely chestnut-coloured hair. Reminds me of a beautiful horse I had when I was a girl. Timmy, I called him, although my father said that was a terrible name for a horse, and insisted upon calling him Apollo instead. Animals are so sensitive—I always tell your father we have much to learn from them, but he still refuses to let me bring the dogs up on the bed. Honestly, the man can be so stubborn sometimes. It if weren't for me, he'd still be eating poached eggs and jellied tongue every night for dinner. What's your name, dear?"

"Forgive me, mother," interjected Draco, "This is Miss Hermione Granger, the daughter of the Marquees of Redmond." He prayed Hermione wouldn't correct him and tell his mother she was actually Redmond's ward, which would instigate a flurry of questions.

"I'm delighted to meet you, child." Mrs Malfoy smiled warmly at Hermione. "It has been quite some time since my Draco has had a little friend over. I always tell him we should throw a party and invite all his friends, but poor Draco is a bit shy, and he won't let me do it. But one day I'm going to surprise you, young man," she teased, gazing adoringly at him, "and you'll come home to find the house filled with all your lovely playmates, and we can play games on the lawn and have tea and pumpkin juice and little cauldron cakes and candied fruit—won't that be nice?" she turned her attention back to Hermione. "You'll have to come too, dear. I'm sure Draco would like that."

"Thank you so much, Mrs Malfoy." Hermione smiled at the woman, liking her immensely for the obvious affection she felt toward her son. "I would be delighted to attend."

"Excellent. I'll just go and have a word with Mr Malfoy, and we'll see if we can agree upon a date. He pretends to be too old to enjoy such childish activities, but the truth of the matter is, Draco, nothing pleases that man more than his family—you know that don't you?"

"Yes, mother. I know."

"Of course you do." She pushed the lock of hair off his forehead once again. "Remind me to trim your hair tonight, Draco, it is getting entirely too long. You come to me after Williams has given you your bath, all right? I can't trust her with the scissors—the last time she cut Frank's hair put a pudding bowl on his head, then trimmed the front so short he looked perfectly ridiculous. Took months to grow out. Thank goodness your brother didn't notice—he's still too young to care what he looks like. Have you met Draco's little brother and sister?" she asked Hermione.

"No, Mrs Malfoy. I've not yet had the pleasure."

"Well maybe the next time you come to play with Draco you can see them. Draco doesn't play with them, of course, being a good deal older, but he does take extremely good care of them. I trust him more than I trust Williams. Do you know she once left Margret and Frank alone in the nursery playing with paints? By the time I went to check on them, Frank had painted his baby sister the most ghastly shade of green—he said he was trying to make her look like a turtle! I wanted to discharge Williams on the spot, but Draco begged me not to. He said Frank and Margaret adored her, and that was worth a good deal more than some ruined clothes and all the soap it took to clean poor Margaret's skin. He was right, of course. Draco has always been unusually mature for his age—"

"Forgive me, sir," apologized Telford, rushing breathlessly into the study. 'I went to fetch Mrs Malfoy her tray, and when I returned to the drawing room she was gone." He cast her a wounded look as he finished, "Mistress, you promised me that you would stay there until I returned."

She blinked, mystified. 'Did I? Well, I'm sorry, Telford, but I had to find my Draco and meet his lovely little friend here. Besides, you had only to ask Mr Malfoy, and he would have told you where I had gone. Wasn't he still in the drawing room?"

Telford glanced worriedly at Hermione, uncertain how much she had gleaned about Mrs Malfoy's precarious state of mind. "Master was not there when I returned," he answered truthfully.

'Well, then, he probably went into the library to have a cigar. Have you meet Hermione, Telford?"

"Yes, mistress."

"Mrs Malfoy has been telling me the most wonderful stories about her children," Hermione said, trying to put the elf at ease. It was obvious to her that he was most protective of this family.

"Did Draco tell you about the time he sneaked into the pantry and ate the entire jar of Shepherd's preserved cherries?" enquired Mrs Malfoy gaily.

Draco winced. "I don't think Hermione needs to hear that, mother—"

"They were soaked in pure Jamaican rum," she continued, ignoring him. "Then he went to his room and promptly threw up red cherry juice all over himself. When the nanny elf went in and found him lying on the floor, she thought there had been a murder." Her laughter filled the study as she finished, "Poor Draco has not been able to look at a cherry since!"

"Telford, did you fetch my mother her tray?" Draco asked.

"Yes, sir. I left it in the drawing room."

"Wouldn't you like to finish your tea, mother?"

"Not until I speak with your father and let him know that you are all right, Draco. You know how he worries."

Draco prayed for patience. "Telford, would you ask my father to join my mother for tea in the drawing room."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't be ridiculous, Draco," his mother scolded. Her voice became slightly agitated as she added, "You know very well your father can't join me for tea."

Draco regarded her cautiously, wondering if she had suddenly shifted to on of her rare moments of lucidity. "Why not?"

"Your father doesn't drink tea. Hasn't for years."

"Then Telford will bring him a glass of fire whiskey. He still drinks it doesn't he?"

"Draco!" Mrs Malfoy sounded shocked. "I don't approve of you talking about spirits in front of your little friend—whatever will her parents think?"

"That's all right, Mrs Malfoy," Hermione hastily assured her. "My father has been known to indulge in a glass of fire whiskey himself."

"Well, really, children, this is not an appropriate subject for either of you," Mrs Malfoy chastised. "Now, Telford, I would like you to bring these children some of those lovely cauldron cakes Griffin baked this morning, all right?"

"Yes, my lady."

"It was delightful to meet you, my dear," Mrs Malfoy said, smiling at Hermione. "Do come again whenever you please." Her gaze grew shadowed. "We don't seem to have many visitors, these days."

"I would be delighted to come for another visit, Mrs Malfoy," Hermione told her.

"Very good. Don't forget about Draco's party," she chimed as she went sailing out the door. "It's going to be wonderful. Come along, Telford, we have to start making arrangements." She beckoned for the dutiful house elf to follow.

Draco closed the door, pressed his forehead against it, and slowly counted to three. Then he turned to look at Hermione.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not making her feel uncomfortable."

Hermione nodded. "How long has she been like that?"

"A long time." He went to his desk and poured himself another drink.

"Was she like that when you were a child?" Hermione could well imagine how confusing Mrs Malfoy's peculiar hold on reality would have been for a little boy.

"No."

Draco took a swallow of fire whisky and stared at the painting of his mother and her three children that hung on the wall opposite his desk. His father had commissioned it when Margaret was about a year old, Frank was five, and Draco was eleven. They were seated in the garden at their country home, beneath the brilliant green foliage of a splendid tree that had been planted some two hundred and fifty years earlier, when the first Malfoy's had begun the construction of the house. Draco's father had grown up playing beneath that tree, and he wanted a portrait of his beloved wife and children beneath it. He had said that every time he looked at the painting, he would see everything that was important to him.

"Where are your brother and sister now?"

"Margaret is married and living in France, with two children of her own. Frank lives in the States, where he is trying to establish himself as something of a business man."

"Does your mother ever see them?"

"Rarely. Margaret used to visit before she had her children, but now she finds it difficult to travel with them. Also, my mother can be unpredictable. Sometimes she is happy and pleasant, but she also has moments where she can be rather volatile. Margaret, understandably, does not like to expose her children to their grandmother's moods. They are quite young and ill-equipped to deal with it."

"What about your brother?"

"Transcontinental apparition is very difficult and he can barely apparate on his own. And he doesn't like to floo or use port keys."

"Does he write to her?"

"He did at first. Unfortunately, she never really understood from whom the letters were coming. For the most part, in her mind Frank is the five-year-old boy in this painting. She can't seem to grasp that her son is grown and living an ocean away, for that her daughter is married with children of her own."

"And what about you? Does she ever recognize you as a man?"

"She used to, but her episodes of being somewhat normal become more infrequent. It will be difficult to convince her I don't need her to cut my hair," he added ruefully, raking his hands through it.

"I could trim it for you, if you like. Then it wouldn't upset her anymore."

He regarded her in wonder. It had been a long time since anyone other than an elf had offered to do anything for him. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. But thank you."

He was staring at her intently, making Hermione feel self-conscious. "I'll be going, then," she said. "Poor Oliver must be wondering what has become of me, as I told him I would only be a few minutes—"

"Hermione."

"Yes?"

"Let the Aurors help you," he urged quietly. "Merlin knows, I never thought I would be espousing the merits of the Aurors, but they are used to dealing with situations like this. They can find this scum who is threatening you, put him in jail, and that will be it."

She shook her head. "The Aurors cannot help me."

"Why not?"

What could she tell him? She wondered miserably. Because the man who was threatening her was actually her own father? Because he had vowed to beat her mercilessly if she told anyone, and she knew too well that he never made an idle threat? Because if she didn't get him the money, he would do something too horrible to contemplate to her family? Because the Aurors would only listen politely and fill out a report, and then do absolutely nothing? There were thousands of men on the streets of London who fit the description of Boney Buchan. They knew the dark warrens of the tenement buildings and the stinking mazes of alleys. The Aurors could never find Boney Buchan. But he could find Hermione.

And when he did, he would punish her for disobeying him.

"They cannot," she repeated, her voice hollow.

Draco grit his teeth in frustration. His headache was intensifying now, warning him that he would soon have to resort to laudanum after all. Fighting the pain, he went to his desk and opened the safe hidden in the lower cabinet. He extracted an envelope, and then locked the safe and cabinet once more.

"Here is eight hundred galleons," he said handing her the envelope. "It's all the bank notes I have at the moment. I can arrange for more, but unfortunately it will take a few days. In the meantime, see if that is enough to take care of your situation."

Hermione stared at it, surprised. Then she reached out and took it. "Thank you."

Draco nodded. She seemed achingly beautiful to him in that moment, a beguiling combination of strength and vulnerability. He found himself wanting to reach out and touch her, to pull her close and wrap his arms around her, to feel her body pressing against him, all softness and strength and heat. He didn't want her to face whatever dark forces were threatening her alone, and yet he sensed that she would not welcome his assistance. Given his disastrous performance at his two break-ins, he supposed he did not inspire a great deal of confidence—even in himself. He pressed his fingers against one temple, trying to ward off the advancing pain. His vision was starting to blur, warning him that he had to take refuge in his chamber, soon.

"Forgive me if I don't see you to the door," he murmured, pulling on the velvet rope that would summon Telford. "Telford will escort you back to your carriage."

Hermione regarded him with concern. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He braced his hands against his desk and pretended to study a document lying upon it. The type on it was wavering and blurry, making him nauseated.

"Sir?" said Telford, appearing at the door.

"Kindly escort Miss Granger to her carriage." It was an effort for Draco to keep his voice steady.

"Yes, sir." The elf turned to Hermione. "Miss Granger."

"Good might, Mr Malfoy," said Hermione.

Draco did not look up as Telford followed Hermione out.

It was only after the door had closed that he took the bottle of laudanum from his drawer and poured a dose into the remainder of his brandy. He swallowed it in a single gulp, then shut his eyes and slumped across the desk in defeat.

There was nothing more he could do for anyone that night.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Archie Buchan shifted restlessly on his feet and vehemently cursed God, Jesus Christ, and the handful of Christ's disciples whose names he could remember.

He hated waiting.

Life in prison had been all about waiting he reflected bitterly. He had waited for morning so he didn't have to lie against his louse-ridden bed listening to the snores and farts and moans of the other holed up with him. He had waited for his jug of frigid water and harsh soap, because it enabled him to rinse out the foul scum that constantly brewed in his rotting mouth. He had waited for his gluey porridge, greasy soup, and sour milk, because he knew if he didn't eat, he would die. He had waited to start his ten-hour shift of picking oakum or making nets, because if he didn't work he was beaten and sentenced to the crank machine. And then he had waited for night to fall once more, his body aching, finger blistered and bloody and raw, so exhausted that he scarcely noticed the foul smells and sounds poisoning the sir around him.

Patience meant survival.

Some inmates aro0und him had not understood this. They had permitted their bodies to weaken. They had let their minds become brittle. They had failed to keep their rage burning hot within them. But not Archie. He was not about to let himself die or go mad, which were the only two options for escape.

Instead he had focused on the certainty that one day he would be free to eat what he liked, get drunk when he wanted, and bury his cock in as many women as he could afford.

It was this same patient determination that had enabled him to keep on Hermione's house the entire night, waiting. He had seen her go off by car the previous night, and had still been standing there when she returned. He had watched the three young whores who were staying with her return at different times as well. When boredom had set in he had occupied his mind with thoughts of what he might do to each of them if he had the time of the money. When that grew tiresome, he thought about what he would to Sal when they returned to their shabby room instead. Sal wasn't young or bonny, but she knew a thing or two about pleasing a man, and he didn't have to pay her for the privilege. Once he had his money, though, he'd find someone more to his liking. Someone younger and fresher, who hadn't opened her legs for every prick who ever bought her a butter beer or told her, she wasn't hard to look at. Sal was a bit soft that easy. She wanted a man to look after her. Although Archie hadn't done much in that regard, when he quaffed her he made sure he rubbed her muff, which caused her to groan with pleasure.

He had never like prigging women who just seemed to endure his attention.

"Is he up yet?" demanded Sal, yawning as she emerged from behind the last house in the row.

"No."

"It's still early, Archie," Sal pointed out, scratching herself. "Why don't you go catch a few winks, and I'll stay here and watch for him? There's some crates back there that I piled up, so you don't have to sit on the ground."

"I ain't tired."

"You look half dead."

"I always look this way."

"I don't know how you'd know, since you ain't got no mirror."

"For Christ's sake, Sal, either shut your gob or go back to sleep. I ain't moving from here."

"Fine, then," she snapped. "Don't sleep. I don't care."

"Good."

She glowered at him. The man was impossible. All she was trying to do was offer him a little bit of comfort after he had been standing on his feet all night. Most men would have been thankful. They might have chucked her under the chin and told her she was a good girl, then let her lead them back to the nice, dry chair she had made. They might have entrusted her to take over watch, knowing that she was smart and would be sure to wake them the minute she saw anyone come out of the house. But not Archie. He had to do everything himself. He didn't trust anyone – not even her. It hurt a little, the fact that he didn't believe her ardent promises that she would never betray him. It also made her sensitive to the fact that he made no such assurances to her. In the end, though, it didn't matter of he wouldn't swear himself to her. Lots of men had promised to be true to her, then either fleeced her of lifted her skirts of another woman. She'd known a few girls who'd run around on their men, but that was rare.

Girls knew they'd get a fist in the eye if they looked at another.

"There he is." Archie's mouth curved with satisfaction as young Flynn emerged from the house.

"What's he doing out so early?" wondered Sal. "If I was him with a nice house and a clean bed, I'd sure sleep later than this."

"Old habits die hard," mused Archie, watching as the slight boy moved quickly down the front steps. "He's used to rising before the sun, to get off the streets and out of the doorways before someone lands a broom on his ass."

"Where's he going then, at this hour?"

"Let's find out." Archie lowered his cap, hunched his shoulders forward, then offered one arm to Sal.

"Why, thank you, Archie," she said, surprised by his unusual show of courtesy.

"We'll take less notice if we look like man and wife. Straighten your hair, you look like you've been blasted by a gale."

Sal's hands flew self-consciously to her stingy, clumsily arranged hair. "Better?"

"It'll have to do. Come on, I don't want to lose him."

They shadowed Flynn at a distance through the streets. The boy moved quickly, as if he had a purpose in mind. He walked with a kind of jaunty air, his head up, his feet tripping lightly over the sidewalks and cobble-stones. His dark blond hair dripped out from underneath a brown cap, and although it was a bit long and ragged, it had obviously been recently washed and combed. His plain coat and trousers were loose-fitting but clean, and his leather boots seemed relatively new. There was a confident, almost swaggering manner to him that one did not find in most eleven-year-old lads from respectable homes, but Archie knew it well. That was what one got when one took a filthy, conniving urchin, cleaned him up a bit, and put him in clean togs. It was not enough to fool Archie, but at first glance, the lad looked decent enough. That put him at an advantage. Nobs got all addled when they saw a scruffy little urchin about, fearing that the beggar was about to nick something off them. Dressed in his fancy traps with his face scrubbed and his hands washed, young Flynn had a look of near-respectability to him. A few more years in Mione's tender care, Archie reflected, and he might be just as polished at playing a swell as she was.

But deep down he would still be scum, just like the rest of them.

"Quick little bugger, ain't he?" said Sal, her ample breasts heaving against the constraints of her corset.

"Come on, Sal, keep up – I feel like I'm half dragging you."

"I'm trying," she told him crossly. "You'd be having a hard time too if you was wearing these bloody heels. They ain't made for traipsing all over London.

"I don't know why you wasted good money on boots you can't even walk in," Archie snapped. "It's not like you spend your time riding about in cars."

"When we're flush in the pocket, I'll be buying myself a new pair of boots," she assured him. "I know the ones I want, too; all toffee-coloured with leather soft as cream, and tiny little buttons that look like gems."

"Just make sure you can walk in them," he muttered, dragging her along. "If you can do that, they'll be worth whatever you pay for them."

They followed Flynn down several more roads, until finally he came to one of the modest shopping streets near Diagon Alley. The shopkeepers were busily opening their stores and setting up tables and stalls in front. These were being filled with everything from handsome leather books to delicate ladies' combs and fans and neatly pressed gentlemen's handkerchiefs. If goods were attractively displayed in the open air, the men and women strolling by might be might be more likely to make a purchase. For aspiring thieves this left the goods vulnerable, particularly if the shopkeeper had to go into the store for a moment, leaving his display unattended.

Archie watched as Flynn casually sauntered along the street, his hands jammed, Archie mused, feeling a flicker of respect. If the boy moved too quickly or looked nervous, he would immediately attract the suspicions of the shopkeepers. But if he took his time and appeared relaxed, then they were apt to think he was a lad with a bit of brass in his pocket, who just might be enticed to part with it.

Flynn meandered down the street, pausing to examine a book here, a pile of fruit over there. Suddenly an explosive sneeze tore from him, causing him to whip out a voluminous red handkerchief and double over. Archie watched with admiration as the boy snatched an apple from a cart just as the banner of red cotton went to his face. Flynn deftly slipped the apple into his pocket while making a spectacular show of blowing his nose, much to the revulsion of anyone who happened to be watching. He ambled along once more, still stopping to look at whatever happened to catch his eye. After a few minutes he fished the apple from his pocket, polished it vigorously on his sleeve, and bit noisily into it.

Archie was impressed.

"Clever little dip, ain't he?" Sal had also spent enough years picking pockets to recognize raw talent when she saw it.

"Can't imagine Mione would let the lad go hungry," reflected Archie. "He stole that apple 'cause he knew he could. And if he's anything like me, he'll want more – just to see if he can get away with it."

"Come on then, Archie." Sal grimaced as her shoes bit into her feet. "Let's get it done and over with."

'I want to see what he has in mind, first. Beat way to find out what he can do is to watch him."

Sal groaned, but didn't argue. She knew if she made too much trouble Archie would just leave her behind, and she didn't want that.

They strolled along arm in arm, blending in with the other early morning shoppers who were now crowding the narrow street. They paused, then pretended to lose interest and moved on after him. After the lad ignored several opportunities to lift something without the attending shopkeeper's notice, Archie began to suspect the Flynn had a specific destination in mind.

Eventually the boy came to a tidy little shop that sold tobacco and sweets. Beautifully arranged behind the front windows on the left side of the store was a tempting array of succulent candies. The other side of the store specialized in tobacco, and cigarettes and cigars packed in neat little boxes that were decorated with fancy gold lettering and exotic-looking stamps. A handsome collection of smoking accessories complemented the display, including elegant sterling silver cigarette cases, heavy ashtrays made of crystal, marble, and onyx, and an assortment of spectacularly carved pipes.

Flynn stood close to the window, his hands in his pockets. He seemed fascinated with the adult delicacies within, but no one took much notice of him. The round, balding shopkeeper gave him a friendly sort of look, perhaps thinking he might have a copper or two to splurge on a sweet, but in the next moment a gray-haired gentleman entered the store in search of some tobacco, and Flynn was forgotten. The boy edged a little further over, watching as the shopkeeper removed one of the tall jars of tobacco from the front window. The owner then turned to take it to the back of the store, presumably to measure out some for the elderly patron who had just gone inside.

Flynn swiftly withdrew a small knife from his coat pocket, inserted it in the corner of one of the glass panes, then sneezed as he pushed firmly against it. The sound covered the cracking of the glass, which fractured in the approximate shape of a star. He pressed a sticking plaster against the broken pane, pulled the glass out, the thrust his small hand inside and began scooping up the pipes and cigarette cases, stuffing them into his coat pockets. Within twenty seconds he had taken as much as he could carry. He propped the broken fragment of glass back up against its casing, then turned and walked away, whistling.

He had only gone a few feet when the shopkeeper suddenly looked up from his counter and noticed the broken pane of glass.

"Stop, thief!" he roared.

Flynn shot forward like a cannonball, racing amidst the outdoor carts and stalls as he tried to escape. Determined not to lose him, Archie threw off Sal's arm and sped forth as well. He was in reasonable shape for a man of some fifty-odd years, but they bevy of angry shopkeepers and bystanders who raced forth to apprehend the young thief quickly outpaced him.

"Come here, you little bugger!" shouted then enraged shopkeeper, his fury rendering him oblivious to the fact that he had just deserted his store.

"Somebody trip him!" yelled another.

"Look out – he's getting away!"

A veritable mob was now charging after the boy, but it's very size made it clumsy. Soon the incensed members at the back were huffing and clutching their chests and dropping off, deciding one troublesome urchin wasn't worth apoplexy. Archie forced himself to keep going, even though a needlelike pain was jabbing his chest and his lungs felt as if they were going to explode. He could just barely see Flynn up ahead. Cursing and praying that he wouldn't drop dead at the same time, he forced himself to run faster.

"Got you, you filthy little bastard!" roared an elated gentleman, grabbing Flynn by his coat.

"Sod you!" The boy twisted around and kicked him hard in the knee.

"Bugger it," the man swore, releasing the lad as his leg buckled painfully beneath him.

Flynn was off again, darting this way and that as he threaded a path through a maze of startled shoppers. A few brave souls thrust out hands and feet in an effort to either grab him or trip him, but Flynn was light and quick enough to slip from their grasp or leap over their legs. When that didn't work, a solid kick to their shins invariably did. But the excitement of his escape was drawing more attention further down the street. A half-dozen youths quickly arranged themselves into a blockade. Flynn turned and whipped down the nearest lane leading off the street. A few resolute souls from the initial mob ran after him, shouting at the leader of the pack to not let the boy get away.

Archie arrived just in time to hear an outraged steak of high-pitching cursing.

"Let me go, you fucking old fart!" raged Flynn, struggling mightily to get free of his captor.

"Hold fast, you filthy little thief, or I'll knock your bloody head off!" returned the man gamely.

"Fuck you!" Flynn kicked the man in the shin.

The man responded with a powerful blow to the side of Flynn's head, stunning him.

"Do you want another?" he demanded, shaking the slight boy by the scruff of his neck.

Flynn shook his head, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"You're nothing but a pissing little scrub," muttered the man, easing his grip lightly.

Flynn smashed his skinny fist into the man's nose.

"Bloody Merlin!" The man's hands flew to his bloodied face. "I'll kill you, you little shit!"

Flynn was already dashing away, heading toward the sunlit opening at the opposite end of the alley.

Archie ran a few steps then threw himself forward, stretching his arms and back legs as far as they would go. "Got you!" he barked triumphantly, knocking the boy to the ground. He pressed his knee into the boy's back and pinned his arms beneath him.

'What have you done this time, you rotten scalawag?" he demanded furiously, swiftly rifling through the boy's pockets before anyone else drew near. He quickly removed two silver cigarette cases, three handsomely carved pipes, and a small box of cigars, which he dropped into his pocket. "You'll be the death of me and your ma, and that's the God's truth of it. Have you no shame?" he railed as a small, angry crowd gathered around them. "What'll I tell your poor ma, who's still grieving since your little brother died just last month – that her only living son is off to Azkaban now, and she'll just have to make do without him as well?"

Flynn regarded Archie warily. Archie gave him a conspiratorial smile and patted his pocket, indicating that he would help the boy in exchange for a cut of his booty. Flynn nodded curtly, accepting his terms.

"You'll be lucky of the Aurors don't haul your scrawny arse away for good," Archie continued, jerking the boy to his feet. "And if it weren't for your poor ma, I'd be of a mind to toss you in Azkaban myself, you sodding little prig!" He cuffed him smartly on the side of the head, knocking off his cap.

"Is this your son?" The shopkeeper was huffing mightily as he pulled his way to the front of the crowd. His face was an alarming shade of purple.

"Aye, I'm afraid so," Archie replied, removing his own cap respectfully. "I'm sorry about all the trouble he's caused you, sir, and I'm willing to let him have whatever punishment you think is fitting. You can call for the Aurors, if you like, though if he goes to Azkaban it'll break his mother's heart – maybe you could throw a poke or two at his chops, if you think that'll make up for the terrible thing he's done."

Flynn regarded Archie incredulously. "Sod that – "

"I'll be licking him proper, whatever ye decide," Archie continued, grabbing Flynn by his ear. "I whips him constant, but it don't make no difference, he's as lazy as Ludlam's dog, he s, and a scraggy liar besides, but he's my own blood and 'tis my job to see he turns out right, so I'll just hold him for ye while ye give him his due." He dragged Flynn in front of the shopkeeper and held Flynn's arms behind him.

"Here now, leave off, ye great bruiser!" shouted Sal fiercely, pushing her way to the front of the crowd. "Ye should be ashamed of yourself, beating on me boy – and just after her own baby brother died, too." Anger glittered in her eyes. "Does your wife know ye take yer pleasure by blasting on lads scarce half yer size?"

The crowd murmured in disgusted agreement, despite the fact that a moment earlier it would have welcomed watching the boy get beaten.

"I wasn't going to hit him," the shopkeeper protested, confounded. "But he smashed my shop window and stole from me!"

Sal marched over to Flynn and planted her hands on her hips. "Well, what have you to say for yourself? Did you steal from the gentleman?"

"I did," Flynn admitted, "but only so I could buy you something pretty – you've been so sad since the babe died." His expression was angelically tormented. "I did it for you, Ma."

"Oh, my sweet boy!" Sal threw her arms around Flynn and pulled him hard against her bosom. "You're all I've got left now, so promise me you'll be a good lad and not steal no more – I couldn't bear to lose you, too!" She buried her face in his hair and began to sob loudly.

"I won't, Ma." Flynn's voice was muffled against the cushions of her voluptuous breasts. "I promise."

"There now, he's going to be straight from now on sir, I promise you." Archie pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his coat pocket and blew his nose loudly into it.

"But what about what he stole from me?" demanded the shopkeeper.

Sal broke her embrace to regard Flynn sternly. "Right then," she said, holding out her hand. "Let have it."

Flynn hesitated, then pulled out the remaining pipes and cigarette case from one pocket and gave them to her.

"All of it," Sal said warningly. "Now."

Casting her a disgruntled look, Flynn produced several packages of cigars and cigarettes from the other pocket and added them to her hands.

"There you are sir," she said, handing the stolen goods back to the shopkeeper. "Good as new."

He stared at the items in his hands suspiciously. "This isn't all of it," he protested.

Sal turned Flynn. "Are you holding something more?" she demanded.

"No." Flynn shook his head vigorously.

"Turn out your pockets then," ordered Archie, "So we can see."

Flynn obligingly turned out his pockets. All he produced was his red handkerchief.

"I could have sworn he took more," muttered the shopkeeper.

"Now say you're sorry to the gentleman," ordered Sal.

Flynn regarded him remorsefully. "I'm sorry, sir."

"There's a good lad, said Archie. "Well, sir, I guess we'll just be on our way –"

"Just a minute – what about the damage to my window?" demanded the shopkeeper. "That's going to cost at least half a sickel to fix."

"Of course, let me take care of that." Archie pretended to feel around his pockets for some money. "Let's see – I know it's here somewhere –"He shook his head in confusion. "Well, that's the damnedest thing – Mary have you got half a sickle on you."

"Sure enough," she said, rooting around in her reticule. After a moment she shook her head. "Must have left me coin purse at home."

"Well sir, here's what I'll do," said Archie gamely. "I'll come by your shop in an hour with the brass, and I'll fix your window besides, so you can keep the money just for the trouble the lad caused you. Sound fair?"

Archie could see that the shopkeeper would have much preferred to have his money straight away. But what Archie had proposed was so eminently reasonable, there was no possibility he could refused him.

"Very well," he conceded.

"Right then, lad," Archie continued, frowning at Flynn, "let's get you home so you can think on how you're going to change your ways and be more of a help to your ma."

"I don't need nothing fancy from a store," Sal assured Flynn. "All I need is to have me boy with me, and knew he's safe." She snuffled loudly, wiped her nose on a not very clean handkerchief, then wrapped her arm around him.

"I'll see you soon, sir," Archie called over his shoulder to the shopkeeper as he pushed Flynn through the thinning crowd, "to take care of that smashed window."

They left the alley and walked down the street together, arm in arm. After they had traveled a few blocks, Flynn broke free from Archie and Sal's hold.

"Right, let's split the swag," he said in a low voice, referring to the cache in Archie's pocket.

Archie scowled at him. "Not here." He gestured at all the people milling about. "We'll take you somewhere we can look at it safe." He pretended to think for a minute. "Me and Sal's got a room not far from here. We'll go there."

"I'm not slipping you nothing here," Archie returned flatly. "I didn't risk my neck out there just to be nabbed by a peeler as we're walking away. You can come with us or shove off – I don't give a damn."

"We got gin," added Sal, trying to entice him. "Good stuff, too, not the piss you're used to swilling."

Flynn thought about this a moment. "Fine."

He followed them in sullen silence as they wove their way down a series of narrow streets, crossing garbage-strewn courts and stinking passageways that took them deeper into the criminal rookery known as Devil's Acre. The rotting buildings there had once been reasonably respectable homes in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but years of misery and disrepair had transformed the area into a fetid, vermin-filled slum. Brothels abounded everywhere, coupled with filthy "padding-kens". In these overcrowded lodging houses, those with a few coins to spare could share a filthy bed with several others, in a room stuffed with thirty or more miserable men, women and children. The entire area was a nest of desperation, populated only with criminals and whores, but Flynn took no notice of it. He followed Sal and Archie gamely through the maze of twisting alleys, confident that he would find his way out of it unassisted.

Finally they entered a dilapidated building. Archie led the way up a creaking staircase to the top, pausing to kick a rat out of his way before he unlocked the door to his room. Flynn followed him and Sal into the hot attic chamber, which stank of gin, urine, and boiled cabbage.

"I'm not splitting it," Archie said flatly, closing the door behind them.

"What do you mean?" demanded Flynn, incensed. "I nicked it."

"Aye, and nearly got yourself walloped and sent to the coop for your trouble. I'm the one who saved your scrawny arse, and I'll be the one keeping the swag."

"Sod you!" swore Flynn, striding toward the door. He jerked on the handle, only to find it locked.

"There's one more thing I forgot to mention," Archie added, seating himself on one of the two rickety wooden chairs in the room. "You'll be staying with me and Sal for a while."

"The hell I will." Flynn cursed as he pulled against the door. "Give me the sodding key."

"It ain't for long," Archie assured him. "Just until I collects my moneys from my 'Mione."

"Who?"

"Miss Hermione Granger, I suppose is what you call her. That isn't her real name, though. She's Mione Buchan, from the town of Inveraray. There was a time when she was almost as good a little prigger as you."

"You're a liar," Flynn spat. "Miss Hermione is a lady – her da's a nob in Scotland!"

"That nob ain't her da," Archie informed him. There was a trace of pride in his voice as he finished, "I am."

Flynn snorted with laughter. "You? You ain't fit to scrape the mud off her boots!"

Archie leapt up and heaved him into a small table.

"Stop it, Archie!" shouted al.

"I don't tolerate disrespect," Archie informed her, hauling Flynn to his feet. "Not from no one." He raised his fist.

"Think a minute," pleaded Sal, grabbing him by his outstretched arm. "If you make a great racket, you'll only have the neighbours coming up to complain and how will you explain the lad to them?"

Archie hesitated, his great fist suspended in the air.

"You don't want to ruin everything," Sal continued emphatically, still pulling on Archie's arm. "Leave the boy be. He ain't going to say nothing more." She cast Flynn a warning look.

Archie glared at Flynn. "Are you?"

His eyes burning with hate, Flynn shook his head.

Archie responded by heaving him across the room. Flynn smashed into the wall. He stifled a moan and sank to the floor, then curled into a ball.

"Get off of me!" Archie snarled at Sal, wrenching his arm free from her. "And get me a bloody drink."

Sal obediently went to a small cupboard in the corner of the room and retrieved a bottle and two dirty glasses. She set them on the table, poured a generous shot of gin into each, then handed one to Archie.

"Here's to prime times ahead," said Archie. He raised his glass and drained it, then banged it on the table, motioning for Sal to fill it again. Once that drink was gone, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and glared at Flynn, who was sitting huddled on the floor against the wall.

"Keep your mouth shut and do as I say, and you'll have nothing to fear. But try to escape, or do anything to make trouble," He added ominously, "and I swear I'll break every goddamn done in your skinny little body."

"Where's Flynn?" wondered Oliver, frowning.

"I thought he was with you," said Annie as she took a seat at the dinning room table.

Doreen passed a plate of warm biscuits to her. "I've not seen him all day."

"He was up and out early this morning," supplied Ginny. "I heard him going down the stairs."

"'tis not like him to be late for his supper," fretted Eunice, serving ladlefuls of fragrant stew into everyone's bowl. "I told him I was fixing beef-and-barley. That's one of his favourites."

"I'm sure he'll be along soon," Annie assured her.

"He shouldn't be going off without telling Miss Granger or Oliver, Eunice, or Doreen first," Violet observed. "That's the rule." She slathered a thick layer of butter onto her biscuit, then crammed the entire thing into her mouth.

"Here now, you're going to choke if you shove it in like that," scolded Doreen.

"A lady tears off just a wee piece, puts a little butter on it, then eats it nice and dainty," added Oliver, trying to help Violet with her table manners. He pulled a small piece off his own biscuit to demonstrate.

"I'm starving," protested Violet, her mouth full.

"I canna see how you'd be starving, given that you ate an entire meat pie, four pieces of toast, three fried eggs, and four sausages for breakfast," countered Doreen.

"The lass is still growing," Eunice clucked sympathetically, adding another ladleful or beef-and-barley to Violet's bowl. "Look at the poor thing – she's not but skin and bone."

"Even so, you shouldn't be choking down your food like a starved do," argued Doreen. "It ain't proper."

Violet rolled her eyes. She was barely fifteen, and she had already been whoring for three years by the time Miss Granger had taken her in two months earlier. It was her own mother who had first pushed her into the trade, as a way of supplementing their family's meager income. She had only been twelve at the time, which was the legal age of consent. Her first time with a man had been terrifying and painful, and she had wept bitterly when it was over. But her mother had called her a good girl when she saw the fistful of coins the man had given her. She had taken them all, sorted through them, then given Violet just one to keep, generously telling her she could send it or save it, whatever she liked.

After that Violet never gave mother everything she earned.

There was never a question of whether or not Violet would continue whoring – not if she wanted to go on living with her family. And if she didn't, well, just where would she go? Her "gentlemen friends", as her mother liked to call them, kept good food on the family's plates and a roof over their heads, which was somehow made to seem right and noble. After a while, Violet found that both her body and her mind adjusted. She was a working girl, just like the hundreds of other girls who frequented Charing Cross Station and the strand, looking for customers. Some of them received gifts from their men, like pretty hats with feathers on them, or even silk stockings or soft leather gloves. But when Violet saw the older prostitutes wandering the same areas, their chests heaving with phlegm coughs, their chalky faces wrinkled and bruised, she wondered if that was all life had in store for her. She had heard about prostitutes who lived fine lives, put up in elegant apartments where they dressed in jewels and furs and drank champagne all day, but she didn't have to actually walk the streets. They were so beautiful and refined, the men came right to them. That was the kind of whore she wanted to be, she decided. Someone elegant, who could pick and choose which man she would let between her legs. That seemed a much better life than walking the streets or slaving in a factory.

She helped herself to another biscuit. Mimicking Oliver, she carefully pulled off a small piece, dabbed a miniscule amount of butter on it, and daintily placed it in her mouth.

"There's a good lass." Oliver smiled with approval. "Now just remember to chew with your mouth closed, nice and quiet."

Violet immediately closed her mouth.

"Good evening, everyone." Hermione affected an expression of clam as she entered the dining room. She did not want anyone to sense the sick anxiety that had been mounting within her all day. "Where's Flynn?"

"He'll be along shortly," Doreen assured her, taking note of the dark shadows beneath Hermione's eyes. "Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm fine Doreen." She managed a smile. "I'm just a little tired, that's all."

"You've been doing too much lately," Eunice scolded, shaking her head. "Going off to all them fancy dinners and balls at all hours – to say nothing, of that night you dragged the Dark Shadow home with you. You're not so swack that you can be doing those things."

"You need to stay in and rest," Annie agreed. "Let the world go about on its own for a bit."

"I'm afraid staying in and resting won't help me to keep things going here," Hermione responded.

"If you drop dead from exhaustion, that will not keep things going here neither," argued Doreen. "I hope you're not planning on traipsing out tonight – you look as if you're ready to fall into your stew."

Hermione shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere tonight."

In fact, she had no idea whether she was or wasn't. Her father had told her that he would come to her after four days for his money. That meant he could appear any moment. She had waited all day to see if he might send someone with instructions on where she should go to meet him. So far, no one had come. The anxiety of waiting was eroding the fragile calm she was struggling to maintain.

The moment he realized she had obtained only a fraction of the money he had demanded, he would beat her.

She told herself she could stand that. After all, she had endured countless beatings by him as a child, and she had survived. What truly terrified her was the possibility that he would also harm one of her family. She had agonized all day as to whether she should warn them. But if she did, they would insist upon involving the Aurors. And when her father found out, as he ultimately would, that would make him to do something brutal. Perhaps not to her, but to one of her brothers or sisters, or maybe even to Genevieve and Haydon. The fear roiling in the pit of her stomach rose up, nearly chocking her.

She desperately wished her brother Harry wasn't away on one of his lengthy voyages. Harry was the oldest of her siblings, and they had always shared a special bond. When they were younger, Harry had been her champion, always trying to protect her from the world. And he might have stayed her champion, if Hermione had not insisted that he go to sea and visit all the exotic places they had talked about endlessly as children. But even though it might have been comforting to confide in him about her father, it would have been impossible, she realized bleakly. His own violent childhood had given Harry a dangerous sometimes uncontrollable rage. He was more of a match for Boney Buchan than anyone else in her family, but that didn't mean he would win against him. Genevieve and Haydon had worked for years to civilize Harry, which meant that now he at least understood that there were rules to be observed, and consequences to be suffered.

No one had ever tried to civilize her father.

The only other person she had considered turning to that day was Draco. She found herself thinking of him constantly, recalling his powerful presence, the intensity of his dark gaze as he asked her to tell him who was threatening her. As if he truly believed that he could help her. And for one brief moment, as she has felt the searing heat of his strong hands upon her, she had almost believed he could. But a gently bred aristocrat like Draco knew nothing of the sordid world from which she came. He was born to a life of elegance and grace, filled with velvety green lawns and pretty ponies and little iced cakes, with a mother and father who adored him and servants who were employed to see to his every whim. He came from a world that was clean, gentle, and pure. And despite the fact that he had enjoyed some success at being a jewel thief, his last two break-ins had been disastrous; it was obvious his skills were waning. Draco had been kind enough to give her what by any standard was an enormous sum of money.

For the rest, she would have to count on herself.

"Can I have it?"

Hermione stared at Violet blankly. "Pardon?"

"Your supper. You ain't eating it. Can I have it?"

"Sweet Saint Columba, I'll get you more from the kitchen – there's no need to be grabbing it off of poor Miss Hermione's plate when she's scarce had a chance to eat."

"But she ain't eating it," Violet returned, defensive. "She's just staring at it."

"That's all right, Eunice. I'm not hungry." Hermione handed Violet her bowl.

"Can I have you biscuit, too?"

"Now you're just being greedy," observed Annie. "Especially since you've had three already."

"One of them was real small," Violet countered. "And when you rip them into little pieces they don't fill you up the same as when you swallow them big."

"Here you go, Violet." Hermione passed her biscuit to the slender young girl as well. Her churning stomach and ragged nerves were making it impossible to eat anything anyway.

"If you're not going to eat your supper, then what'll you have?" asked Eunice, regarding Hermione with concern.

"I'm really not hungry, Eunice." She rose from the table. "I think I'll just retire to my room and read a bit."

"Would you like me to fix you some tea and toast?"

"Maybe later."

"I'll bring you a tray in an hour. I've made some lovely cod pie – I'll bring you a plate of that, too."

"I'm afraid I'm not hungry for cod pie," Hermione told her.

"I am," Violet said enthusiastically, gobbling up Hermione's stew. She belched.

"Here now, I've told you before we'll have none of that at the table," said Doreen sternly.

"If you keep eating like that, your belly is going to burst," Ginny warned.

"Now leave the poor lamb alone," said Eunice, who always loved to see someone enjoy her cooking. 'She's just not used to having so much food about. You can have your cod pie now, Violet, but maybe you'd like to bide a wee bit, and have it later. I'll set some aside for you, if you like."

"I want it now," Violet told her. "I'm starving."

"Can't see where she putting it," Oliver marveled. He glanced under the table, checking to see is she was hoarding food in her napkin for later. "Seems all to be going into her mouth," he reported, shrugging.

"Eunice told me I ain't got to hide food, because she said I could eat whenever I wanted," Violet told him, shoveling the last spoonful of Hermione's stew into her mouth.

"Aye, and so you can," Doreen agreed. "Just make sure you don't fill your belly so full that we have to roll you from the table," she added, chuckling.

"And please remember to save some dinner for Flynn, Eunice." Hermione rose from the table and slowly limped toward the stairs. "He's sure to come in any minute."

_She huddled further into the corner, her rough soiled blanket pulled over her head, barely breathing. Maybe he wouldn't notice her, she thought frantically, struggling to lie as still as she possibly could on the floor. That happened sometimes, when he came home so stewed that all he could do was stagger across the room, vomit, and collapse on his bed. Then he would sleep like a dead man, except for the disgusting sounds that blared from his nose and mouth. But Hermione didn't mind those sounds. They told her he was truly out, which meant he wouldn't bother with her for hours. Sometimes he even slept well into the next day. She liked that_

_A fragile sense of calm would fall over her when her father slept deeply. Then she would move about and do as she liked, as long as she did it quietly. If it were daytime, she would escape their wretched room in the tenement building and wander the streets, looking for something to nick. Things were usually better for her if she could bring home something to give me. It was never enough, of course. If she lifted a wipe, h complained it was only cotton and not silk. If she managed to nip an apple or a bun, he snapped that she should have nicked a rum cake or a meat pie instead. And if she managed to really screw up her courage and lift a pocketbook or a watch, he would snarl that the pocketbook was near empty, or the watch was only cheap metal and not gold. He would call her a useless little slut, and rage he'd have been better off if she'd never been born. She would listen in distraught silence, her head bent low, silently telling herself that next time she would do better. Then he would crack her hard across the face and arms and back, again and again, until she fell to the ground._

_She had never pleased him._

_She heard him staggering toward her, and her heart sank. Not so drunk, then. She squeezed her eyes tight and pretended to be sleeping, feebly hoping that he might let her be. Instead he moved closer. Her heart beat faster as the stench of him assaulted her senses, a wretched small of sweat and drink and filth. She knew she didn't smell much better, but at least she made some effort to clean herself each day with a little cold water and the precious bits of soap she nipped. She clutched her blanket, a ragged shield of thin wool, which could do nothing to protect her from either him or the cold. Please, she though, not sure whom she was addressing, please don't let him hurt me._

_His booted foot stopped by her backside._

"_Give over," he commanded thickly. "Now."_

_She leapt up and scooted away from him, trying to put herself just beyond striking range._

"_Here," she said, pulling a thin chain from her sleeve. "And here," she added, extracting a small, worn snuffbox from the pocket of her gown._

_He grabbed the two items and turned them over in his grimy hands, his face twisted in drunken confusion as he tried to make out their value in the weak light. Finally, he bit the chain. He grunted in disgust and shoved it into his coat pocket, then turned his attention to the snuffbox. Hermione knew it was of no great value, for it was only of silver plate and it lacked any stones or other ornamentation that might have increased its worth. But it was pretty enough and in good condition, which meant that her father would be able to sell it for something. She hoped that would be enough to satisfy him._

"_Is that all?" he demanded, his eyes dark and heavily glazed._

_She nodded._

"_Christ, you're useless," he spat. "All day you've nothing to do but nip a few things so we can eat, and this is the best you've got?"_

_She looked down at her feet, ashamed._

_He slapped her hand across the face, causing her to stagger back._

"_You're just like your bloody ma," he growled furiously, "good for nothing. Only way she could earn her share was by quaffing and that's the way it'll be for you too. But you're too skinny and ugly for any man to want a snatch. I should just throw you out, do you hear?"_

_Hermione bit the inside of her mouth, fighting back the tears threatening to pour from her eyes. If he saw her crying, it would only be worse. Her father hated it when she cried._

"_You're going to fatten up a bit, and them I'm setting you to work," he decided. "Christ knows, you ain't much to look at, but there's swells out there that likes them young and tight. They'll not mind how you look, as long as you spread easy and give them a fair ride."_

_Blood leaked onto her tongue. She swallowed it, trying to fight the wave of nausea coursing through her. Say nothing, she told herself, fighting the impulse to protest. To say anything would only earn her a beating. Better to say nothing, and pray that he would forget about his ghastly idea when he awoke the next day. _

"_Tomorrow, we'll nick you some new togs," her father informed her, lurching unsteadily toward his bed. "And clean you up a bit. Swells likes their snatch clean. Then I can charge more for you. Not too much at first, mind. That'll scare them off. I'll let you learn your trade first." He collapsed onto his bed. "You'll be a prime piece, once I'm through with you," he added, mumbling into his pillow. "I promise you that."_

_She stood rooted to the floor, afraid to stir for fear that even the slightest movement might rouse him. After a few minutes his snores filled the miserable little room. Once they had become deep and rattling, she permitted herself to move. She went to to the battered old table in the corner and splashed a little water from the chipped jug onto a dirty cloth. Then she held the cloth against her stinging cheek, trying to ease the pain in her jaw. She had gotten off easy that night. Normally he was not satisfied until she was either cowering in a corner, or he had drawn blood. The fact that he had not beaten her more caused a knot of fear to tighten in her gut._

_Prime pieces did not attract men when they were covered in cuts and bruises, she realized bleakly._

_Even when they were only nine years old._

Her skin was beaded with sweat and her muscles had contracted, as of preparing to fight. She moaned and turned onto her side. _No,_ she thought, fighting the hideous memories invading her sleep. _No, no, no._ Pain was crawling up her injured leg, warning her that another spasm was about to strike. She whimpered and pressed her face deeper into her pillow, attempting to summon the strength she needed to endure it.

A rough hand clapped hard against her mouth.

"Hello, Mione," her father drawled, his breath sour and reeking of gin.

She lay frozen beneath him, overwhelmed with terror.

"If you make a cheep, I'll kill you," he informed her matter-of-factly. "If someone comes running in to save you, I'll kill them, too. Understand?"

She nodded mutely.

He glared at her a moment, his calloused hand crushing her mouth. He could have killed her then and there, she realized. He could have wrapped his hands about her neck and squeezed the life from her, or pressed a pillow against her face, or cut her throat with the wickedly sharp dirk he always carried in his boot. But if he did that, he wouldn't get his money. She held fast to this, trying to dredge some fragment of strength from it. She had something he wanted. That gave her a modicum of power, fragile and fleeting though it might be. She stared up at him, trying to hide her fear behind a frozen façade of near calm.

Abruptly, he jerked his hand away.

She swallowed thickly. _Think,_ she ordered herself, trying to bring the storm of fear raging through her under some semblance of control. She took a slow, shallow breath, trying to steady herself.

"This is a fine house you've got for yourself," he said mockingly, gazing about the simple, shadowed bedchamber. "I'd expect you to be living much grander. I've seen his lordship's house here in London. Makes this place look like a shack." He eyed her contemptuously through the darkness. "Does he not think much of you, then?"

"I picked out the house." Hermione's voice was small.

"Then you're even more maggot-headed than I thought," he snapped. "The ward of a bloody marquees does not live in a cesspit with priggers and whores. He cannot care much for you, this Redmond, or he'd not let you do it. The other wee dips he took on live better than this."

Hermione's heart sank. So he had seen her brothers' and sisters' homes. Of course he would have. Boney Buchan might have been a thief and a drunk and a brute, but that didn't mean he didn't take his work seriously. Especially when five thousand galleons was at stake.

"Still, he's kept you on all these years, even though you're well past being of age. I do not suppose even with all that brass he could get one of his nob friends to marry you. Swells like their women whole and clean, with a bit of backbone to them – not a squashed piece of crippled baggage like you."

She bi the inside of her mouth. _Say nothing_, she told herself desperately. _Don't fight. And don't cry. Just let him feel like he has all the power. That's what he wants._

"He'll have to keep on paying for you then, till the day he kicks the bucket," Archie mused, rifling through the boxes and jars on her dresser. He pawed through the contents of her jewelry box, stuffed most of the items into his pockets, then snorted in disgust. "Ain't you got nothing with more than a few shickles?"

"No."

"Why not? Does he not buy you nothing fancy?"

She shook her head.

"I don't suppose I'd waste the money on you, either," he muttered, sighing. "All right then, give over." He held out his hand expectantly.

Hermione reached under her pillow and withdrew the envelope that Draco had given to her.

"Here." She limped over to him, praying he wouldn't bother to count it.

He snatched the envelope from her hand and went to the window. For a moment she thought he was going to simply climb out and disappear into the night, leaving her be. Instead he extracted the wad of notes and began to slowly count them in the moonlight, his lips moving as he squinted and frowned at the numbers printed onto the crisp new bill. When he came to the last of them, he scowled.

"Where's the rest of it?"

"That's all I could get. There is no more."

He raised an unconvinced brow. "I told you I wanted five thousand galleons." He spoke slowly, the way one talked to a recalcitrant child. "And five thousand is what you're going to give me, Mione."

"I can't." Her voice was small. She started to back away from him. "I tried everywhere, and that was all I could get. I told you I couldn't go to Lord Redmond. He'd want to know what the money was for, and if he thought for a minute that I was in any sort of trouble, he'd have the Aurors watching over me – and we don't want that." She tried to make it sound as if they were co-conspirators. As if she was on his side.

He stroked the grizzled gray on his chin, thinking. 'You're right," he agreed finally. "We don't want that – do we Mione?" His voice was heavy with menace. "'Cause the second I see a Auror sniffing about for me, I'll be right caged, and you know how I get when I'm mad." He inched closer to her. "You remember what they call me don't you, Mione?"

She nodded.

"Say it," he commanded harshly.

"Boney," she managed, her mouth trembling. "Boney Buchan."

He smiled, either pleased because she had remembered, or because he liked the way it sounded coming from her. "And why do they call your old da that?"

She swallowed.

"Why, Mione?"

"Because you break bones."

"That's right, I do. Lots of bones, Mione. More than I can remember. But you remember, don't you?"

She nodded, feeling as if she was going to be sick.

"So you're going to get me the rest of my money, and you're going to get it for me quick. And if you tell me you can't, or won't, I'm going to be right caged, which just might mean that I'll have to break some bones. And do you know whose bones I'll break first?"

She nodded furiously. Tears were stabbing at her eyes now. _I mustn't cry,_ she told herself, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek. _I mustn't._

"I don't think you do." His mouth split into a hard smile. "'Cause you're probably thinking it'll be your bones I'll be cracking, when in fact I've something better in store. Can you guess what it is?"

Her eyes widened. Oh, God, he was going to go after someone in her family. He understood that was worse than anything he could possibly do to her. She knew he could do it. She would have to warn them, she realized. She's have to tell all of them that they mustn't go out, or if they did, that they needed to have protection, and then they would want to go to the Aurors –

"I'm going to break wee Flynn's bones," he informed her succinctly. "One bloody bone at a time."

She stared at him, stunned. _No_, she thought, feeling on the brink of hysteria. _No, no, no._

"Have you not noticed that he ain't about, Mione?" He regarded her with something akin to amusement. "He's a clever wee tooler, that's for sure. Caught him just this morning fleecing a shop. Near got away with it, too. But then a mob started after him, and I had to lend him a hand. He was sodding mad when he realized I was keeping him till our business was finished. Refused to believe I was your dad. I had to crack his napper for that one." His expression darkened as he finished, "He kept his gob shut after that."

Hermione stayed frozen, trying desperately to absorb what her father was telling her.

And then she shrieked in helpless rage and flew at him, striking him as hard as she could in his face.

Archie was too astonished at first to fend off the blow, which sent a surge of ringing pain through his cheek and ear. He recovered quickly enough to grab his daughter by her arm and crack her own cheek with the back of his hand before heaving her to the floor.

"Try that again, you fucking bitch," he swore fiercely, "And I'll kill you."

"No, you won't," Hermione bit back, her entire being roiling with a powerful mixture of hate and fear. "Not if you want your money."

His eyes widened with surprise. "Well, well," he said, "looks to me like my Mione has grown a bit of backbone."

"Hermione?" Oliver's sleepy voice was laced with concern as he called through her chamber door." Are you all right, lass?"

"If he steps through that door, I'll kill him," Archie promised softly.

"I'm fine, Oliver," Hermione managed, trying to make her voice sound bright. "I just stumbled in the dark, that's all."

"Can I come in?" Oliver persisted, unconvinced.

Archie whipped his dirk out from his boot.

"No!" cried Hermione. Thinking quickly, she hastily added, "I'm not dressed, Oliver. I'll just be a moment." She pulled herself up off the floor and faced her father. "You have to go."

"You've got one week to get me the rest of my money," he bit angrily. "After that I'll start sending your precious Flynn back to you, one piece at a time, starting with his ears. Got it?"

She nodded frantically, terrified that at any second Oliver would open the door. If he did, she had no doubt that he father would kill him.

"Good." He stuffed the envelope of money in his pocket, sheathed his dirk in his boot, then went to the window. "One week, Mione," he repeated, wanting to be sure she understood. "No more."

With that he hoisted himself over the windowsill and was swallowed whole into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Someone was trying to kill him.

It took a moment for this realization to pierce the heavy mantle of sleep that had left him lying helpless on his bed. But once his senses returned, he did not hesitate.

He exploded upward and began to wring the murdering bastard's scrawny neck.

"Please, your lordship," squeaked Telford, his eyes round with shock, "You're chocking me!"

Draco stared at his butler blankly. Telford was trying to kill him. That was ridiculous. He looked to see if his long-suffering butler brandished a weapon, seeking some evidence that he actually meant to harm him

There was nothing.

"Merline, Telford," he swore, abruptly releasing him, "what in the name of god is going on?"

"Forgive me, your lordship," Telford croaked. He climbed of the bed and made a half-hearted attempt to regain his dignity by straightening his night robe. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was only trying to waken you. I knocked before coming into your chambers. When you didn't answer me, I grew concerned and tied shaking you."

Draco raked his hand through his hair, trying to leash the adrenaline pounding through his veins. He could have killed Telford. Another moment or two, and he would have either strangled him or snapped his neck. He stumbled over to the table in the corner of his bedchamber and splashed some brandy into a glass. It was reckless to mix alcohol with laudanum he had taken earlier, but at that moment, he didn't care. He took a hefty swallow, then another. It had been an accident, nothing more. Anyone might have reacted the same way, waking to find some man hovering over him in the middle of the night. And after all, the moment he had realized it was Telford, he had stopped throttling him. That proved he had a complete understanding of what was actually happening around him. Therefore it wasn't paranoia. He downed the rest of his drink, clinging to that feeble piece of logic. He was not turning into his father.

Not yet.

"What time is it, Telford?" His vision was still a bit blurry from his headache, making it difficult to see the numbers on the mantel clock.

"Twenty minutes past three o'clock, sir," Telford replied. "In the morning."

Well, at least that explained his butler's nightgown. Draco glanced down at himself and saw that he was naked. "And why are you waking me?" he demanded, snatching up his dressing gown from the chair on which he had tossed it. A terrible thought suddenly occurred to him. "Has something happened to my mother?"

"Her ladyship is fine, sir," Telford hurriedly assured him. "She is sleeping. I'm here because Miss Granger is downstairs in the drawing room and she would like to see you."

Draco frowned. "At this hour?"

"Yes, my lord. I explained to her that you were sleeping and were not in the habit of entertaining guests at this hour, but she assured me that you would receive her." He hesitated slightly before delicately adding, "She seems rather distraught, my lord."

Draco didn't need to hear any more. He cinched the belt of his robe and raced past Telford, his chest tight with dread.

He found Hermione standing in the center of the drawing room. Her face was ashen and her auburn hair was falling in tangled disarray about her shoulders. Her simple gray gown was heavily creased, making it almost look as if she had been sleeping in it. But what caught his attention most were her eyes. Their brown-and-gold depths were wide and filled with terror. For a moment he could only stand and stare at her, feeling sick and helpless. He knew that stricken look.

He had seen it in his mother's eyes, many years earlier, on the night his father in a fog of madness had tried to kill her.

He fought the sensations reeling through him, trying to distinguish between the past and the present. Then Hermione turned slightly, and he saw the ugly plum-coloured stain upon her cheek.

Rage surged through him, of such intensity he could not speak.

"I'm sorry," Hermione began, mistaking the fury in his face for anger toward her. "I know I shouldn't be here at this hour – I've no right to be. But I didn't know where else to go." Her voice was strained. "I thought ..."

She paused, not certain how she could explain it to him. He was still staring at her, his hands fisted at his sides. She had made a mistake, she realized desperately. She had thought she could turn to him. For some reason she couldn't explain, she had believed that Draco would want to help her. But she had been wrong. She could see that now."

"Forgive me." She started to limp toward the door.

Draco moved in front of her. He reached out and gently grasped her chin, titling her face up so he could better see the bruise seeping across it.

"Tell me who did this," he said his voice low and soft.

His expression was hard, but his touch was achingly gentle. She stared up at him, uncertain, confused, and yet something in the powerful anger emanating from Draco made her also feel stronger. It was as if he was enveloping her within the protective shield of his outrage, even though he was only touching the tip of her chin. And in that moment, she needed some of his strength. She needed to feel it coursing through her, giving her the courage to face the hideous situation in which she, and Flynn, and every one of those whom she loved, had suddenly been thrust.

"I need your help." Her voice was barely a whisper.

He said nothing, but escorted her over to a sofa and seated her. When he turned away to pour her a drink, Hermione gripped the armrest, feeling a need to hold fast to something. She stared blankly at the faded blue-and-marigold-stripped fabric, which was worn and threatening to split open near the seam.

"Here," said Draco, handing her a glass of wine. He adjusted his dressing gown, a flimsy affair of sapphire silk that barely concealed his otherwise naked legs and chest, and seated himself as far away from her as the length of the sofa would permit. He realized it was entirely inappropriate for him to b sitting with a young, unmarried woman, but unfortunately, he saw little way around it. She was far too distressed to be kept waiting while he went upstairs to dress, and whatever Hermione was about to tell him, she would never reveal in the presence of another. Besides, he reflected, nothing about their relationship thus far had fallen within the confines of what might be considered even remotely socially acceptable.

"I want you to tell me everything, Hermione, starting with who struck you."

She set down her glass and looked away.

Unwilling to let her withdraw from him when she had demonstrated such inconceivable faith by seeking him out in the first place, he moved closer and took one of her hands in his. The hell with propriety, he thought to himself. "Tell me," he urged, his voice gentle. "Let me help you."

She stared down at his enormous hand holding hers. How comforting it was, to have such a warm, strong hand hold fast to her. No man ever held her hand this way. Oliver sometimes patted her hand, his gnarled aged fingers softly tapping her knuckles as he told her not to fret over something or other. And Jack, Harry and Ron always gave her a reassuringly brotherly squeeze when they offered her their arms, to help her in or out of a carriage or to stroll some short distance with her. Their touch was always sweetly caring and protective, a touch that told her not to mind the fact that she was limping in front of the rest of the world. But their touch was nothing like the feel of Draco's hand upon hers. His palm was like fire against her skin, a searing heat that was spreading through her flesh and making her feel warm and liquid and strange. It struck her as rather pathetic, that an inexperienced crippled spinster like her could be so moved by the mere touch of a man's hand. But she didn't shift away. Instead she tightened her fingers around his, wanting to feel more of his masculine power.

"He has Flynn," she began haltingly.

"Who?"

She bit her lip. What would Draco think of her, she wondered despondently, when she told him? When she confessed that the man who had spawned her, and then spent ten interminable years terrorizing her and torturing her, forcing her to do all kinds of excruciatingly shameful things, had come back to her? Draco undoubtedly knew of her past, despite his previous assertion that he didn't listen to gossip. But no one other than Genevieve knew anything more than the broadest strokes of that past. Even Genevieve wasn't aware of all the sordid details. When Hermione had first gone to live with her, she had not wanted to tell Genevieve everything, out of fear that her new mother might be so repulsed that she would make Hermione leave. Gradually over the years, Hermione had revealed her past in fragments, but Genevieve had never pushed her to tell her ore then she was comfortable with sharing. Genevieve had instinctively understood that everyone manages painful experiences in different ways, and that for some children, the very act of calling up dark memories could be destructive rather than healing. For the most part, Hermione had chosen not to discuss her father. For the most part, Hermione had chosen not to discuss her father. Instead she had worked hard to vanquish his memory.

It was enough that her crippled leg served as a constant, lifelong reminder.

"Who has taken Flynn, Hermione?" Draco repeated gently.

"If I tell you, you must promise me that you won't tell anyone else." She held fast to him, her gaze pleading.

"If you want us to get Flynn back, it may not be wise for me to make that promise. We may need some assistance."

She vehemently shook her head. "No one can know about this, Draco. I am already taking a great risk by confiding in you. If he find out that I have told anyone –"

"If who finds out?"

She didn't answer.

"Fine," he relented, realizing he would never find out anything if he didn't agree to Hermione's terms. "I swear I won't tell anyone. Now, what has happened to Flynn?"

She swallowed thickly. "My father has taken him?"

Draco frowned, bewildered. "Lord Redmond?"

"No, not Lord Redmond." She stared down at the intricately woven Persian carpet, unable to meet his gaze. "My real father."

He was unable to contain his surprise. "I thought he was dead."

She nodded. "I think I did, too. Or maybe I've just tried to push that part of my childhood so far away, I just made him cease to exist – at least for me. I never wished him dead," she assured him, although at that moment she was not entirely sure that statement was true, "or hoped that anything bad happened to him. I just didn't want him to be part of my life anymore." She studied the wilted hem of her gown, feeling ashamed. "I realize that makes me a horrible daughter."

"It makes you nothing of the sort," Draco contradicted firmly. "From what little I know of your background, Hermione, your father was a common thief who was extremely abusive toward you. I don't think anyone would want someone like that kept at the forefront of either their lives or their minds – especially a little girl who could not possibly defend herself from him."

She kept her gaze downcast. "I think most people who know me today assume that I was an orphan when Lady Redmond rescued me from jail in Inveraray. My real mother died when I was very young. I don't remember her. But until Genevieve found me when I was ten, I lived with my father. He was arrested for stealing at the same time I was, and he was sentenced to several years of hard labour. He didn't serve them in Inveraray, though. Genevieve was told that he was sent to jail in Perth, and that was the last we ever heard about him. I never tried to find out more." She ran her fingers along the worn fabric of the armrest, feeling guilty as she hesitantly admitted, "I didn't really want to know."

"Didn't you think he might come looking for you one day, after he got out?"

"For a long time I was haunted by that possibility. I used to be afraid that he would escape from prison and come after me. But then Genevieve married Haydon, and my brothers and my sisters were made their legal wards. Only my name changed to Genevieve's madden name, the rest kept the name that they had had already. After that the whole family moved north to Haydon's estate near Inverness. Haydon and Genevieve were wonderful parents, and they were extremely protective of all of us. After a few years, I started to feel safe. The life I had led before seems so distant and ugly. I suppose I tried before very hard not to think about my real father."

"But he didn't stop thinking about you."

"In prison, you have a lot of time to reflect upon tings," she remarked softly, her gaze still fastened upon the floor. "Especially at night."

The thought of Hermione being thrown into some dank prison cell when she was only a child struck Draco as appalling. He could scarcely imagine how terrified she must have been, and how overwhelmed she must have felt when Lady Redmond rescued her and took her into her home to live. One might expect that Hermione would have been so scarred by the experience of her childhood that she would avoid anything that might remind her of that part of her life. Instead she had devoted herself to helping other who were trapped in the same desperate world she had once known.

Until that moment, he had not really understood the importance of her work. He had thought it noble enough, in the way that any charitable endeavour to help the less fortunate was good and decent. But the slums of London were teeming with violence and despair. With her modest little house and her odd assortment of servants, Hermione could hardly wage a war on a dark reality that had existed for hundreds of years. Draco now realized that even if she only succeeded in altering the lives of one or two of the women and children she brought into her refuge house over the year that in itself was a magnificent accomplishment.

He had only to look at her to understand that.

"When he first spoke to me a few days ago, my father told me he had thought that I was weak and useless, I probably hadn't survived prison anyway. I don't think he particularly cared whether I had or hadn't."

"Then how did he suddenly find you?"

"He came to London a few months ago, and he said that while he was going about St. Giles, he started to hear about a young woman who was trying to help the less fortunate in London. I suppose I am something of a curiosity to the people who live there – especially given that I have chosen to actually live with those I am trying to help. Once he heard that I was Scottish, my name was Hermione, and I walked with a limp, his interest was sufficiently aroused that he decided to find me." Her expression was pained as she quietly reflected, "I suppose I don't look all that much different from the way I did then – just a lot cleaner and better dressed."

Draco regarded her in surprise. It suddenly struck him that the young woman who was seated beside him had no real inkling of her loveliness. He thought of the simplicity of the evening gown she had worn to Lord and Lady Marston's ball, the loosely pinned arrangement of her hair, and the fact that she had not adorned herself with a single piece of jewellery. He had sensed that her sparing approach to fashion was the result of her not wanting to draw too much attention to herself. But the result was an extraordinary softness and naturalness to Hermione's beauty which was much more appealing to him than the heavily perfumed, overly coiffed, lavishly gowned women who preened about at every function he attended.

"And once he realized that you are now a woman of some means, he decided it was time to reassert himself as your father," Draco surmised. "Which meant demanding that you give him five thousand galleons?"

She nodded. "I tried to explain to him that I didn't have that kind of money, but he didn't believe me. He told me if I didn't get it for him, he would harm a member of my family. When I gave him your eight hundred galleons this evening, I hoped that would satisfy him, but instead he was furious. That was when he told me that he had Flynn. He said if I didn't get the rest of the money to him within one week, he would break every bone in Flynn's body."

Draco absorbed this in grim silence. "And will he actually do that?"

"Yes." Her voice was ragged. "He will."

He rose from the sofa and began to pace confines of the drawing room. The pain in his head that had been plaguing him for over twenty-four hours now had abated considerably, thanks to a dose of laudanum and the fact that he had confined himself to his darkened room. But his mind was still clouded and his vision slightly blurred, making it difficult to think.

He did not have four thousand galleons at his disposal – not immediately, anyway. If he sold some of his investments and rearranged some financing, he might be able to pull the money together within a few days. The question was, would Hermione's father be satisfied with this, or would he continue to hold Flynn hostage and demand even more?

"I can get you the money. Hermione, although it will take a bit of time to arrange it," he began. "However, I'm not convinced that giving your father more money is the answer. Paying a kidnapper is always risky. By abducting Flynn, he has demonstrated that he is willing to se violence to get what he wants from you. If he thinks you can scrape together another forty-two hundred galleons in just a few days, what is going to stop him from demanding even more? Why wouldn't he just keep Flynn and use him as a constant leverage to extort money from you on a regular basis?"

She regarded him in horror.

"I'm not saying he will do that," he quickly qualified, realizing that he was frightening her even more. He decided not to point out the possibility that her father could just take the money and murder Flynn anyway, to keep the boy quiet. "I'm just saying it is a possibility we have to consider."

"My father is a simple man, Draco," Hermione replied. "He drinks, he fights, he steals. Those are the things he enjoys in life. What he doesn't enjoy is having responsibility. He made that amply clear to me every day. Flynn is a means to an end for him, but I don't think he will want to keep him for any longer than is necessary. Once I gave him what he wants, he will release Flynn and leave me alone."

_Either that or he'll kill the lad_, Draco reflected silently. "But now he sees his daughter living what to him appears a lavish lifestyle, and he wants a piece of that for himself. If I understand him at all, he probably believes that you owe it to him, as some kind of payment for his being your father – regardless of how he treated you as a child. I think he'll continue to blackmail you as long as you give in to his demands. After all, getting money from you is far easier and more profitable than any other schemes he's tried in the past."

"Even if you're right, at this point it doesn't matter," Hermione argued. "He has Flynn. I have no choice but to give him what he wants."

"And what if he doesn't release Flynn after you give him the money?"

"He will," she insisted stubbornly. "He must."

"Or what?"

"I won't give him the money until I see that Flynn is safe. I will make him release Flynn first."

"Assuming he agrees to that, what happens next month, or the month after that, when your father finds himself short on cash or longing for something he can't afford, and he decides to pay you a visit again? You have enough people in your life whom you care for deeply that make you an easy target for blackmail. You can't possibly protect all of them from your father, and regrettably, even my means are not unlimited."

"I won't ask you again," she assured him feverently. "I promise."

"I don't give a damn about the money. What I care about, Hermione, is the fact that this vile excuse for a human being thinks he can threaten you and your family and abduct children who have placed themselves in your care. He has to be stopped, don't you see?"

"I can't go to the Aurors, if that is what you are suggesting."

"Why not?"

"Because my father has sworn to me that if he hears that the Aurors are looking for him, he will hurt someone."

"He won't find out until it is too late," Draco argued. "For Merlin's sake, I know the London Aurors can be inept, but it isn't as if they will place an article in the newspaper announcing that they are looking for him."

"No, they'll just patrol the rookeries of the worst areas in London, asking everyone if they've seen or heard of hi, which will be a far quicker way of warning him."

"Just ask them to be with you when your father comes to pick up the money, and they can arrest him. Then at least he'll be off the streets and no longer a danger to you."

"You don't know my father, Draco," Hermione objected. "He may be uneducated and unsophisticated, but that doesn't mean he isn't intelligent. He never rushes into anything. He waits. He watches. He listens. And long before the Aurors have any hope of arresting him, he will have figured out that they were there and left." Her mouth was dry as she finished, "And then he will make sure I am severely punished for disobeying him."

You aren't a helpless little girl anymore, Hermione," he said, frustrated by the effect her father was having upon her. He seated himself beside her once more and placed his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "You're a strong, beautiful woman with a family and friends who care about you, and believe it or not, you are also a respected member of society. So stop talking about being punished as if that piece of filth actually has some right to lay a hand on you. You no longer have to obey him, and he has no right to touch you. Do you understand?"

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling defensive and overwhelmed. "I realize it's hard for you to understand. I know I must seem terribly weak and pathetic to you – liming over here in the middle of the night, looking a mess, begging for your help. I don't know why I came to you, when you have already given me so much money. It's just that when I woke this evening to find him standing in the dark over my bed – when I felt his hand pressed hard against my mouth – for a moment I was eight years old again, and I knew I had to do whatever he said or –" She broke off suddenly, too ashamed to continue.

Draco stared at her, still holding her fast, helpless. It pained him deeply to see her suffering so. He looked at the wine-coloured bruise on her cheek, and felt a terrible, impotent rage fill him. He could see the memories of her childhood flooding through her, could see it in the bleached skin of her knuckles as she clutched desperately at the wrinkled folds of her gown, could hear it in her soft, desperate swallows of breath as she fought not to cry. A terrible nightmare had awakened within her, stripping her of the courage and strength that she had demonstrated on the night when she first came into his life. And he couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear to see this magnificent woman, who in her relatively short life had learned more about courage and strength and endurance than most people would ever known, reduced to this shivering, terrified state.

He would have done anything in that moment to ease her suffering, to bring her back from the black precipice of her tortured past. But everything he had said so far had only further agitated her, drawing her deeper into the world she had fought so hard to escape. And so, realizing that his words were all clumsy and wrong and inadequate, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, thinking only that he wanted shield her from her past, and her present, and all the forces that were battering her injured body and soul. She leaned into him and laid her cheek against his chest, wearily, trustingly. Her back was rigid and tense, and so he began to stroke her, his hands slowly caressing the narrow expanse along her spine, urging the tightly clenched muscles to relax. She was lean and fine beneath the firm contours of her bodice, but he knew that beneath her delicate form burned a will and a determination to survive forged of pure steel. That was why Hermione had been able to survive the cruelties and deprivations of her childhood. She had been rescued, yes, but that rescue had come when she was ten years old, and had already known a lifetime of poverty and abuse. It was enough to destroy most people, he reflected, perhaps not in body, but in soul, leaving them destined to live their lives in fear and anger and resentment. But Hermione had not succumbed to those emotions – or to the equally destructive trap of self-pity. Instead she had learned to accept herself for who she was, which was the result of many forces, including her life with her bastard of a father. Although he had not asked, Draco was convinced that her father had caused the injury to her leg. But instead of shutting herself away and leading a secluded life of pleasant calm as the ward of a marquees, reading and painting or playing the piano in mansion filled with beauty and grace, Hermione had decided to strike back at the harsh world from which she had sprung. She had summoned the strength to limp through its bleak streets and offer help, to try to do something to make a difference.

Her courage was astounding.

He laid his fingers against the elegant curve of her jaw and tilted her head up until she was looking at him. He wanted to tell her not to be afraid. He wanted to assure her that he would help her in any way he could. He owed her that much, at least. After all, she had risked everything she had to save him on the night they met. But he wasn't offering to help her out of some sense of obligation. Nor was he doing it because he pitied her, or thought her weak and pathetic, as she had so wrongly accused him. He wanted to help her because the thought of her suffering even a moment longer at the hands of the man who had tormented her for the first 10 years of her life filled him with unspeakable rage. Because he couldn't bear the thought of anyone threatening her, or worse, daring to lay a hand on her. Because in all his life he had never met a woman as brave and selfless and giving as she, nor one who at the same time could be so stubbornly, maddeningly infuriating. Because from the moment he first laid eyes upon her he had felt a desperate need burning within him, which never abated, but only grew hotter and more overwhelming each time he was in her presence. All these things he wanted to tell her, and more. But as he sat there, staring into the liquid depths of her eyes, which in the soft glow of lamplight reminded him of the sun playing upon the soft green leaves of his father's beloved tree, he found himself unable to speak.

And so he bent his head and captured her lips with his, thinking he was almost certainly going mad, and not giving a damn.

Hermione froze, shocked. She suddenly felt as if the ground had been ripped out from under her. As if everything she had previously understood to be the parameters of her existence, parameters that she had quietly learned to accept over the years, had shifted in an instant. No man had ever kissed her. At the relatively mature ago of twenty-five, she had long ago given up any childish fantasy that any man would ever want to. She was well past the girlish bloom of eighteen. Well past the secretly nurtured hope that someday she might meet someone who would see beyond her crippled leg, her awkward gait, her plain, unremarkable features. She had come to accept that she would never know the feel of a man's hands upon her body, the touch of his lips against her mouth, the presumably exquisite sensation of being desired, and feeling desire in return. Therefore the urgent, powerful heat of Draco's lips upon hers rendered her nearly paralyzed unable to think or speak.

Draco's mouth moved like warm velvet against hers, caressing her, coaxing her, igniting a flame deep within her belly. Slowly, he traced the tip of his tongue along her lips. She sat there, her breath trapped within her chest, her senses reeling, clinging to him. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she was aware that it was wrong for her to permit him to touch her so, but she was unable to summon the slightest inclination to make him stop. It was glorious to be touched with such masculine hunger, his hands moving like a restless flame across the dips and swells of her, awakening her flesh to the sensation of his caresses. Draco's palms moved down the length of her back, across the flare of her hips, up the expanse of her ribs. She could feel herself melting beneath him, her body shifting and softening as it responded to his touch. His tongue flickered again across her bottom lip, teasing, enticing. Her lips parted of their own accord, stunning her even as she sighed into his mouth. Her mind swirling with the heady sensation of being desired, she tentatively teased him. Emboldened and aroused, she tasted him more.

Draco groaned while his hands roamed possessively across the soft curves of her body. It had been well over a year since he had felt anything more than the most distant flicker of desire, and a desperate yearning was flooding through him. The feel and taste and scent of Hermione was overwhelming, stripping away all sense of time and place, until his entire existence was focused purely upon that moment, and he was aware of only two things.

He wanted her.

And incredibly, she wanted him.

It was this that made him slowly unfasten the small black beads at the front of her gown, revealing the ivory calico of her camisole. He tugged upon the slender length of ribbon holding it closed and slipped his hands inside, peeling the layers of summery fabric off her shoulders to expose the lacey corset she wore beneath. He felt her stiffen slightly, uncertain, and so he pulled his mouth from hers to rain reassuring kisses upon the pink seashell of her ear, down the ivory column of her neck, across the pulsing hollow of her throat. He inhaled deeply of her as he continued his path of kisses, worshipping her with his hands and his lips, his palms cupping the soft round of her breasts as he buried his face between them. She threaded her fingers into his hair, her breaths coming faster now, as he undid several of her fastenings at the front of her corset, nuzzled one of her breasts free from her lace-trimmed chemise and drew its crimson peak into his mouth. She arched suddenly and gripped him tighter, pulling him close. He took in her sweet softness, then moved to her other breast, sucking upon the lush swell until it formed a dark berry against the wet roughness of his tongue.

Hermione closed her eyes as Draco eased her back against the sofa, too intoxicated by the sensations eddying through her to summon any sense of propriety. Pleasure was pulsing through her, making her feel wondrously alive and whole and free. She ran her hands down the hard wall of Draco's back as he leaned over her, marvelling at how powerful he felt with nothing but the thin silk of his dressing gown stretched upon his enormous, muscled frame. His lips were on hers again, his tongue plundering the secrets of her mouth, drawing a moan from her as one hand caressed her breast while the other moved down and disappeared beneath the tangled froth of her skirts. There were only two simple petticoats beneath her gown, which posed little hindrance to the ascent of Draco's hand upon her uninjured leg.

He moved languidly, his fingers trailing upon her ankle, then gazing up her stockinged calf, until he came to the frail of lace where her drawers ended at her knee. He drifted along the length of her thigh, his touch gentle and sure. Then his hands slipped inside her drawers, causing her to gasp. He distracted her with a long kiss while his fingers began to stroke the silky triangle of her womanhood. She felt hot and restless, and a mysterious ache began to blossom between her legs.

She wrapped her arms around him and drew him closer. Draco continued to stroke her, his hands roaming languidly over the soft mound, the moving away to fondle the creamy skin of her legs. She shifted in his arms, wanting more, but not really understanding what it was she wanted. In the next instant his fingers slipped inside her. She sighed with pleasure as Draco caressed the secret folds of her, altering his rhythm and his touch, lightly, then harder, quickly, then with long, slow strokes, until finally she was shifting restlessly beneath him.

He pressed hungry kisses across her lips and cheeks and neck, over the hills and valleys of her breasts, along the tightly laced contours of her body. And then his kisses were moving down, and before she understood his intent he flicked his tongue into the scorching heat of her. She gasped, with shock and pleasure and desire, all melded into one staggering sensation. It was glorious and it was shameful, it was the most exquisite pleasure she had ever known and also the darkest and the combination of these forces rendered her unable to move. She should stop him, on some distant, incomprehensible level she understood that, but it would have been like trying to stop her heart from beating wildly within her chest, or her blood from racing desperately through her veins. And so she closed her eyes and held fast to him, acutely aware of the warm summer air against her naked breasts, the soft drape of her skirts cascading over the sofa, the rough feel of Draco's jaw against her thighs, and the scalding slickness of his mouth upon her. She threaded her fingers into the dark tangle of his hair, opening herself wider, astonished by her wantonness and yet somehow also empowered by it.

A terrible need was unfurling within her now, something deep and hollow and relentless, she writhed beneath him, wanting him to touch her more, to kiss her more, to feel his hands and mouth all over her body until there was no part of her that he did not know and accept. His tongue moved deeper now, and then he eased his fingers inside and began to slip it in and out as he swirled his tongue over her, slowly, deliberately. She couldn't bear it, she was certain of it, but again and again he touched her and kissed her and licked her, exploring her and pleasuring her until there was nothing beyond her and Draco and the most magnificent ecstasy she had ever known. She opened her legs wider, inviting him to know the most intimate secrets of her, too overwhelmed with these sensations to wonder at the trust she was placing in him, which seemed so natural and right. Draco's tongue swirled faster, his fingers thrusting deeper, his hands stroking her breasts and her corseted belly, pressing down upon the aching hollow within._ Please, please,_ she pleaded feverishly, not knowing how much more she could bear. _Please, please, please..._

Her breaths were coming faster now, shallow little sips of air that could not fill her lungs, and her body had suddenly become still and strained, every muscle and nerve locked in a spasm of desperate need. _Please, please, please,_ she begged, not sure if she was whispering the words aloud or not, not certain of anything except that she had to hold on and endure his scalding caresses and intimate penetration while she reached and reached for whatever it was he was trying to give her. She stretched and grasped, until there was no more air to be had for her lungs were bursting and her blood was pounding and her mind was filled with the excruciating awareness than she had ever dared imagine. And then suddenly she cried out, in ecstasy and wonder. Ripples of pleasure surged through her as she collapsed against the sofa, fighting to fill her lungs with air as the tension gradually seeped from her body.

Draco threw off his dressing gown and stretched over her, fighting for some semblance of control as his hardness brushed against her searing wetness. He wanted to plunge himself into her, to slake the unbearable need roiling within him. It had been lifetime since he had been overwhelmed by such pure desire, a lifetime since a woman had awakened in him the raw thunder of lust, but this was not just lust, although he was far too aroused to understand just what, precisely, it was. He pressed himself a little further into Hermione, feeling as if he had been awakened from a lonely sleep, to find this magnificent woman waiting for him, with her enormous eyes and her gentle, healing touch. She was an enchantress and an enigma, one minute shy and retiring, and instant later brandishing the most stunning courage and passion he had ever known. She moved him, confronted him, inspired him, making him feel stronger than he really was. His desire of her was staggering, rendering him unable think of anything beyond that moment. And so he eased himself into her, wondering if it was actually possible to die from such excruciating pleasure.

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes wide. He searched her gaze for some sign of reluctance, vowing that if he saw it he would stop, although he had no idea how he would manage such an extraordinary feat. But all he saw was trust, simple and absolute. He bent his head and brushed his lips over hers, tenderly, wanting to make her understand with his touch what he barely understood himself. And then, feeling the last taut threads of his control begin to break, he whispered her name, and buried himself inside her.

She stiffened suddenly. He summoned every fragment of his self-control to hold perfectly still, hating himself for having caused her pain. He would have done anything to ease her suffering, but he had no experience with virgins, and didn't know whether even the moment of withdrawing might only cause her further distress. And so he kissed her lips, whispering soothing words as he waited for the clench of her body to ease. She exhaled a shivering breath, and with it her body started to soften.

He began to move within her, slowly, leashing the unbearable desire urging through him as he forced himself to take care. He tasted her deeply now, and he could feel her desire once again as she began to sigh and shift against him. Her hands moved over his naked back, his shoulders, his buttocks, learning the hard contours of him, shyly at first, and then with a fierce possessiveness. Never before had he been so moved by a woman's touch. He was losing something to her, he understood that now, could feel it with every aching thrust, every beat of his heat, every desperate breath. She was exactly what he had never thought to find, someone strong and independent and caring, a woman who had seen him near his very worst and hadn't turned away in horror. But there was much about him that she didn't know, and the realization was agonizing. He had no right to her, he understood that, for he could only offer her a lifetime of uncertainty, and ultimately, a burden that was far too great for even someone as strong as she.

He groaned and moved faster within her, holding her tight, wanting to make her part of him with her. It was foolishness to indulge in such fantasy, but still he clung to it, pushing the world that existed beyond them.

_Stay with me_, he pleaded silently, knowing he could never ask her to make such a sacrifice, not when he knew firsthand what kind of misery that life would entail. Again and again he pulsed within her, feeling as if he were dying as she opened herself to him and wrapped her arms around him and kissed him with fervent ardour. She was writhing against him now, her breaths puffing in hot little gusts, her fingers clawing at his shoulders as she lifted her hips to sheathe him deeper in her. He tried to slow himself, to gain some semblance of control, but she was rising up and gasping for air as she clenched her body around his, until he could endure no more. He buried himself deep inside her, feeling shattered and lost as he poured himself into her.

Hermione lay completely still holding Draco tight, feeling the powerful drumming of his heart against hers. Nothing had prepared her for what had passed between them. She had understood the rudiments of the sex act from the time she was seven, for the whores who had peopled the landscape of her childhood had thought nothing of making lewd comments to a young girl who was indubitably headed for the same career. She also had her father to thank for crudely educating her on what a man expected of a woman. But then he had broken her leg, putting a quick end to his hopes for making her a prostitute. Most men would tolerate almost anything from a whore, including filth and ugliness and disease. But mercifully, that didn't include raping a child who was also a helpless cripple.

In that perverse way, her leg had actually protected her.

None of that however was remotely related to what had just occurred between her and Draco. She held fast to him, memorizing the weight of his body upon hers, the sheen of his skin beneath her palms, the feel of his breath upon her neck. Her body was liquid, as if she had been soaking in the hottest of mineral springs, and the pain which she lived with constantly had seeped away. She supposed on some level she felt ashamed. After all, unmarried women did not share their bodies with men, at least not in the world Genevieve had made her a part of. But that tenet of polite society seemed inconsequential against what had just raged between her and Draco. Hermione had never expected to experience such passion – had never known such a thing was even possible. She had long ago accepted that no man would find her desirable. Yet Draco had. And more, his feverish longing had roused the flames of her own need, until she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

A melancholy yearning began to unfurl within her, deep and relentless and frightening. She closed her eyes and turned her head to the side, her arms wrapped around him as she fought the tears pooling in her eyes. She did not want him the sense her longing. It would only make her seem pitiful and foolish, and she could not bear to have him think of her so.

Not after the way he had looked at her as he gave himself to her.

"I must go," she murmured, seeking to break the spell that had woven around both of them. She unwrapped her arms from his back, trying to put some distance between them. "Oliver is outside waiting for me."

Draco hesitated. He did not want her to go. Did not want her to move from underneath him and adjust her clothes and hurry out the door into the cruel world beyond. He wanted her to stay with him. Wanted her to go with him upstairs and climb into his bed and let him hold her in his arms while he watched her fall into a deep and restful sleep. He wanted to see the soft play of sunlight spilling across her face as morning broke, wanted to see her gradually waken, all sleepy and dishevelled and warm. He wanted to keep her with him, it just for that day, but always, to know that whatever fate awaited him, she would be there, ready and willing to share it. All this he wanted, and so much more. But it was impossible. He understood that. And so he cradled her face between his hands, forcing her to look at him, agonized by the sparkle of tears upon her lashes.

"I'm sorry," he said, despising himself for the distress he had obviously cased her, and the fact that he could never make it right.

Hermione regarded him in surprise. How could he be sorry about something that had been so exquisite? She could hardly consider herself ruined for any other man.

There never had been any other man, and she was utterly certain there never would be.

"I'm not," she whispered solemnly.

He arched a brow in surprise, once again confounded by her. He found her assertion comforting. Even, so, he knew he owed her more.

"I will do everything within my power to help you, Hermione," he vowed. "I will find you the money you need to give to your father for Flynn. But I want to be there with you when you make the exchange, to make sure that both you and Flynn are safe. I also want to explain to your father that there will be no more blackmailing." He traced his fingers gently around the stained contours of her bruised cheek, struggling to control the anger burning within him as he finished quietly, "And tell him that if he ever so much as lays a finger upon you again. I will tear him apart."

She stared at him, mesmerized by the low cadence of his voice, the protective fury in his gaze, the unbearable gentleness of his touch. She could never allow him and Archie to meet. It would have been wrong to expose something as strong and beautiful and giving as Draco to the foul brutality of a man like Boney Buchan. But she did not tell him that. Instead she laid her hand against his cheek, memorizing the heat of his skin against her palm, the chiselled contour of his jaw, the dark sureness of his gaze.

"Thank you."

He nodded. And then, realizing he had no choice but to release her, he rolled off her and turned away, giving her a modicum of privacy as he donned his dressing gown.

Hermione rearranged herself as best she could, hoping that Oliver wouldn't notice anything amiss as she clumsily buttoned her gown and tidied her hair.

"You may turn around now," she said at last.

Draco turned to look at her and felt his heart wrench. "I will have the money for you in a few days. I will send word to you when it is ready. Then we can arrange to meet your father. Do not worry about Flynn," he added, fighting the desire to pull her back into his arms. "He's a strong, clever boy who knows how to handle himself. He'll be fine."

Hermione wasn't so sure about that, but she didn't argue. There was no point in imagining the worst. Permitting herself to break down in hysteria was a luxury she didn't have. She had to stay strong, for the sake of Flynn, and Annie, Ginny, and Violet, and all those she loved. On some level she didn't completely understand, she even had to stay strong for Draco.

"Telford will show you out," Draco continued, pulling upon the velvet rope to summon his house elf. "Somehow I don't think Oliver would appreciate seeing me escort you to the door in my current state of undress." He opened the door to the corridor, afraid that if they shared even one more moment alone, he would lose his resolve and drag her back against him.

Hermione stood before him, staring at the deep lines etched into his face, and the haunted depths of his eyes, which were torn between the most powerful longing and the most excruciating regret.

"Draco," she began softly.

"You rang, my lord?" asked Telford, fumbling sleepily with the tie of his flapping dressing gown as he rushed down the hallway.

"Miss Granger is leaving now," Draco informed him. "Kindly escort her out to her carriage."

"Certainly, my lord." Summoning an extraordinary dignity despite his rumpled state, Telford turned and gave Hermione a courtly bow. "After you, Miss Granger?"

Hermione turned and limped silently down the hall, her gaze down so that neither Draco no Telford could see the tear that had somehow managed to defy her fierce determination not to cry.

Lewis sank back into the shadows, watching in silence as Hermione's carriage clattered into the fog-laden gray of London's early morning light.

He had been keeping an eye of Lord Malfoy's home all night. It had been a relentlessly dull assignment, but it was one he had given to himself, so he could hardly complain. If Chief Inspector Holloway knew that one of his senior detectives was spending his nights watching the home of one of London's most respected citizen's, an earl who was renowned as a successful investor, a dutiful son, and by all accounts a law-abiding member of society, he would have hauled Lewis in for a lecture on not wasting his goddamn time when there were bloody murderers running about. Chief Inspector Holloway disliked Lewis immensely, and never failed to make his antipathy known. He suspected Lewis thought himself smarter than he.

On that point, the chief was uncharacteristically astute.

When he was first transferred to the Detective Branch, Lewis had made the grave error of admitting to Chief Inspector Holloway that he had a university education. He was swiftly informed that only fribbles and fools wasted their time at university. Everything Holloway knew had been learned through what he termed the "school of life", as if the boundaries of his own narrow little existence set the limits to which all men should aspire. He told Lewis that was where all his Aurors and detectives should be schooled, not prancing about some bloody university memorizing useless scribbling from ancient Greece. Lewis had pointed out that there was actually a great deal to be learned from books, and that modern law enforcement was inextricably tied to the fields of science, forensic medicine, psychology, and the law, all of which needed to be studied in far greater depth than what might be gleaned from merely walking the streets of London.

That comment had earned him a six-month assignment investigating a series of larcenies of wet linen stolen from their drying lines in north London.

His rise through the ranks had been frustratingly slow. But his intelligence and determination had proven irrefutable, and ultimately, the chief had little choice but to promote him. At his current level of First Class Inspector, however, he had hit the ceiling, unless there was an opening for a Chief Inspector somewhere. Old Holloway wasn't going anywhere, unless the arrogant fool suddenly dropped dead.

One could always hope.

Lewis withdrew his pocket watch and studied the time. Twenty-two minutes past four o'clock in the morning. He took out his notebook and recorded it, then calculated the length of time of Miss Granger's visit. One hour and twelve minutes. He had not been close enough to make any reliable observations about her apparent frame of mind at the time of her departure, but he had noted earlier that she had seemed rather agitated when she arrived at exactly ten minutes past three o'clock. Lord Malfoy's house elf had answered the door, and he had also escorted her back to her carriage as she left. Her elderly driver, Oliver, had waited for her, stepping down from his seat only to help her in and out of the carriage. Lewis thought for a moment, trying to decide if there was anything else that needed immediate notation. He would compose a more detailed report later, when he was seated at his desk with a pen and good lighting, as was his habit. Lewis was a great believer in notes. He prided himself on having an excellent memory, but that didn't mean he didn't realize that even the most important details could be subject to the shifting variations of time and imagination. If it was recorded in the notes, then it was fact.

Everything else was merely speculation.

He placed his notebook back in his pocket, then withdrew the pristine linen handkerchief that constable Wilkins had found on the ground the night that Lord Pembroke's home was broken into and his house elf murdered. It was this monogram that had led him to Lord Malfoy, as well as a half dozen other men who had attended several balls which Lady Pembroke had recently worn her esteemed ruby necklace. Four of the men had proven far too ancient to be able to perform the kind of physical feats for which the Dark Shadow was renowned. The fifth, Lord Berry, had turned out to be as short and round as a turnip, causing Lewis to dismiss him as well.

Only Lord Malfoy was even remotely of an age and physique that might have made him capable of such feats, although at forty years, Lewis was sceptical that he could scale walls and trees. However, since he was the only remaining possibility. Lewis had decided to do a little investigating into Lord Malfoy's circumstances, to see if there was anything that might suggest even a tenuous link between his lordship and the elusive thief known as the Dark Shadow.

Upon initial examination, there was nothing. Lord Malfoy apparently enjoyed a solid financial situation, based upon a number of excellent investments that had proven extremely profitable over the years. He didn't drink to excess. He gambled, but only for entertainment, and with a reasonable amount of success. He had once been considered something of a rake, but again, no more so than most eligible lords who had been blessed with a relatively pleasing appearance and the allure of their title and their money. But Malfoy romantic dalliances had dwindled in the past year or two, perhaps in part because of the declining health of his mother. Lady Malfoy was reputed to be completely mad, although Lewis could not ascertain whether or not this was true, since she had not been seen in public for several years. It was entirely possible that she was merely suffering from the unkind ravages of age, and preferred not to venture from her home anymore. Lord Malfoy himself seemed to enjoy attending social functions with relative regularity, and was considered something of a coup when he attended a dinner party, and the hostess could then try and match him up with one of her vapid unmarried lady guests.

Lewis suddenly found himself thinking of Annie, the beautiful young girl who had stood before him in the rain the night he had gone to question Miss Granger. He had thought of Annie often since that night, at odd moments, when his mind should have been firmly focused on his case, or on the mundane preparation of his dinner, or when he was tossing restlessly upon his bed, fighting to fall asleep. She was a far cry from the milky-skinned, sharp-featured, tightly laced young women of polite society, who Lewis suspected regarded him with either pity or contempt. Not that he inspired much idolization. With his rumpled clothes and his worn shows and his cramped, gray little flat, which he hardly ever saw because he was always working, he was scarcely an enticing catch. But Annie had not looked at him the way most women did, their narrow eyes swiftly assessing and finding him wanting, or worse, not even worthy of an assessment.

Annie's brandy-coloured eyes had flashed furiously at him through the rain, her gaze afire with challenge. She had tossed back the damp chocolate silk of her hair and waited, acting as though she actually believed Lewis could do something to right the wrongs that had been inflicted upon her. Of course this was due to the fact that Lewis was a member of the Auror force, and therefore obliged to protect the innocent and uphold the law. But somehow he had sensed there was more to their exchange than that. Surely that explained the extraordinary sensations Annie had arouse in him when she realized he would do nothing. Her icy contempt had left him feeling angry and frustrated, not just with the fact that he didn't have the time to go tramping about St. Giles searching for the bastard who had beaten her, but also because she had been with someone who had dared raise his hand to her. A keen intelligence burned in Annie's eyes, coupled with a tantalizing femininity that filled her lush body as she turned away, dismissing him with the condescension of a queen. She was a whore, he reminded himself endlessly, yet he could not bring himself to think of her so. Annie was too full of beauty and rage and light for him to dismiss her as such. Besides, by seeking Miss Granger's assistance, it was clear that she was trying to extricate herself from her former life. She was a young woman of experience, who had seen the rougher side of life, but was too much of a fighter to have been broken by it.

He was drawn to her, he realized, appalled.

And not just because of the promise she flaunted in the cherry swell of her lips and the soft curves of her charming body. No, there was more to Annie than that, he was certain of it. He prided himself on his highly tuned intuition, which when combined with his relentlessly logical mind, was almost always correct. What then was he to make of his schoolboy attraction to be whore who actually fancied herself better than he?

He pushed his hands through his hair, disoriented. Clearly he needed some sleep. That explained why he was wasting so much time thinking about nonsense when he needed to focus every grain of his attention on the most important case of his career. He stared at the now-crumpled ball of linen in his hand, marshalling his attention back to the question of Lord Malfoy and the dropped handkerchief.

On the surface, Lord Malfoy's life looked to be neatly in order. But Lewis knew better than to be satisfied by appearances. Everyone had ghosts in their past, and as he had correctly surmised, Lord Malfoy was no exception. It had only taken a little digging to uncover the unfortunate circumstances surrounding his father's untimely deterioration and death.

When he was barely in his fifties, the former earl had begun to exhibit some rather bizarre behaviour. Ultimately, it was widely rumoured that he was suffering from some form of premature dementia, perhaps brought on by syphilis. Unfortunately, at the time Lord Malfoy was still sufficiently in command of his faculties to appear capable of administering his estates. This resulted in his investing his entire fortune in a rather risky venture, which subsequently collapsed, virtually wiping him out. His lordship was then forced to liquidate many of his assets, including properties in Somerset and Norfolk, and a formidable art and jewel collection. Unfortunately, this did little to stabilize the family's ruined financial situation. Despondent and of an increasingly feeble mental state, his lordship finally shot himself, just three days shy of his fifty-sixth birthday. His eldest son was thrust into the position of earl at the relatively tender ago of twenty-four.

It was tragic, mused Lewis, but not highly unusual. History was full of drunken or dotty fathers who managed to obliterate their family's wealth before they died. What was atypical in this case was the remarkable ability of young Lord Malfoy, who until the moment of his father's death had been something of a wastrel, to consolidate what little remained of his assets and rebuild his family's fortune. In the spin of a few short years, the new earl had somehow been able to show extremely profitable returns. His father's debts were cleared. The family's remaining homes were well kept and even expanded upon. His lordship even sought out some of the artwork that had previously been sold to satisfy his father's debtors and bought it back, at many times what the buyers had paid his father. Given how dire his financial situation was reputed to have been, Lord Malfoy' rise to riches again was nothing short of extraordinary. Over the course of a year or more, young Lord Malfoy had either begged, borrowed, or stolen sufficient funds to make the investments that would put his family firmly back upon the privileged list of English society.

It was the year that captured Lewis's attention.

The Dark Shadow had been stealing jewels all over London for several months now. At first, it was assumed that the initial thefts were unrelated. But as more thefts occurred and it became evident that they were linked, London society dubbed the thief the Dark Shadow, after a daring thief who had terrorized London's bejewelled society for approximately a year, beginning in the summer of 1859. What was unique about those robberies was the fact that no jewellery chest or safe was ever emptied; as was the case presently, only select items of considerable value or beauty were stolen. None of the pieces were ever recovered. And then, abruptly, the break-ins stopped. It was assumed that the Dark Shadow had been captured and jailed for some lesser offense, or perhaps he had died or been killed. The most popular theory was that he had gone into luxurious retirement in some villa on the Mediterranean.

Or maybe, mused Lewis, staring at the ring of amber still glowing faintly around the drapes of Lord Malfoy's study on the main floor, he had just become so successful he had no longer needed an alternate source of income.

The handkerchief remained problematic. It struck Lewis as almost inconceivable that the man who had been cleverly slipping in an out of the homes of London's aristocracy and disappearing into the night would suddenly become so careless that he would drop a monogrammed handkerchief at a crime scene. The Dark Shadow was no fool. Neither, apparently, was Lord Malfoy. Why would he even take such an item with him when he was about to commit one of his crimes? Was he baiting the Aurors, perhaps daring them to catch him? Did he on some level even want to be caught? Lewis was well aware that many criminals enjoyed the sport of outwitting the Aurors even more than they enjoyed performing their actual crimes. It was entirely possible that the Dark Shadow had grown weary of staying so far ahead of the Aurors, and had decided to toss a clue in front of them as a way of making the game more interesting – or even to bring it to an end. Or was the explanation something far more mundane? Had Lord Malfoy's valet placed the handkerchief in the coat ha had chosen to wear that night, without his lordship's knowledge? Or had Lord Malfoy merely been in the vicinity of Lord Pembroke's home that night, and dropped the handkerchief quiet innocently? Was the fact that the Dark Shadow had last been active in the same year that young Lord Malfoy had been frenetically trying to raise funds to hold his estates together and support his understandably distraught mother, younger brother, and sister, merely a coincidence?

Lewis carefully placed the wrinkled square of fabric back in his pocket. It was possible.

The appearance of Miss Granger at Lord Malfoy's house in the middle of the night, however, made the possibility of mere coincidence highly improbable.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Good morning, Draco," said Lady Malfoy, sailing into the dining room. "I'm glad I found you before you went off – we have much to discuss – good gracious, is that coffee you're drinking?"

Draco looked up from his newspaper and eyed his mother carefully, trying to ascertain her state of mind. "Good morning, Mother. How are you feeling today?"

"Really, Draco, what on earth has gotten into you? If your father finds outs you are in here reading his paper and drinking his coffee, he will be quite annoyed, I can assure you."

"Father isn't here, Mother," Draco told her.

"That is no excuse, and you know it," Lady Malfoy returned firmly. "Telford," she said, fixing her gaze upon him, "would you be kind enough to bring my son a cup of tea with plenty of milk and sugar in it? And perhaps one of Mrs. Shepherd's lovely cinnamon buns – the ones with the sticky syrup on them. Draco just loves them."

Telford regarded Draco helplessly.

"That won't be necessary, Telford," Draco assured him. "I've finished breakfast, Mother. I'm just about to go out."

"Really?" Lady Malfoy regarded hi uncertainly, confused that she did not know her son's itinerary for the day. "Where?"

Draco hesitated. In fact he had an appointment that morning to meet with his barrister and solicitor, to finalize the details of liquidating some of the shares he held in three different companies. When he went to him the previous day, his solicitor had advised him not to sell, as the companies were still relatively young and had not nearly reached their full potential. Unfortunately, time was a luxury Draco could ill afford. If all went well, he should have the money in hand within a few days.

Then he would meet Hermione and determine how they were going to give the money to her father in exchange for young Flynn.

Guilt clawed at his belly. He had been tormenting himself endlessly over what had happened between him and Hermione two nights earlier. Draco understood that his mind had been clouded from the effects of both his headache and the laudanum he had dosed himself with prior to Hermione's arrival. Even so, what he had done was appalling. Hermione had come to him frightened, alone, seeking his help and guidance and support, because on some level he barely understood, she trusted him. And he had taken advantage of her. There was no way to paint it any plainer than that. He had used his considerable experience to seduce her when she was most vulnerable. He had eased her back and buried himself deep inside her, taking her in a frenzy of passion as if she were some common harlot who had dropped by to service him.

Self-loathing poured through him, intensified by the sudden hardening between his legs. What the hell was the matter with him?

"Draco? Are you all right? You suddenly look ill."

"I'm fine," Draco assured his mother, forcing himself back to the present. "I'm meeting a friend for lunch," he added, in answer to her previous question.

"Who?"

"His name is Lawrence." Draco was never certain how much information to give his mother during these exchanges. Sometimes she easily accepted whatever he told her with nothing more than a perfunctory nod, while other times she became fixated upon some seemingly inconsequential detail and worked herself into a near frenzy over it.

"Is that Lord Shelton's son?" she enquired, drawing her finely shaped brows together. 'The one who is afraid of horses?"

Draco debated whether or not to correct her. Ultimately he decided it was easier for his mother to have an image in her mind of whom he was going to see than not. "The very same," he lied.

"Then you must be sure to invite him to your party, Draco," she declared enthusiastically. "I promise you it is going to be great fun. We're going to have all kinds of lovely games on the lawn, and ice cream and cakes, and ponies..." She stopped suddenly frowning. "You don't think poor Lawrence will be sick when he sees them, do you? That's what happens to him, you know. He simply throws up everywhere the minute he gets near a horse. His parents have tried everything to make him stop. They've even taken him to a doctor who suggested it might be the smell of animals that was offending him so. So his nursemaid tied a scented scarf around his face to try to mask the smell, but that only caused him to vomit all over the scarf, poor thing, which I'm sure he found most upsetting."

"I believe he has gotten over his fear of horses, Mother," Draco assured her.

"Well, that's a relief to his parents, I'm sure. A gentleman can't have much of a life if he cannot bring himself to mount a horse without getting sick all over the place. People tend to notice that sort of thing."

"To say nothing of the poor horse," quipped Blaise striding into the dining room.

"Mr. Zambini," said Telford, startled by Blaise's sudden appearance, "how did you get in?"

"The front door was left slightly ajar. I called hello, but nobody answered, and I could hear all of you chatting away in here, so I thought I'd just save you the trouble of answering the door and come on in. Good morning, Lady Malfoy," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "I must say, you look particularly lovely this morning. You seem to get younger and more radiant every time I see you."

"Mother, you remember my friend Blaise Zambini," said Draco seeing confusion cloud his mother's eyes as she stared at her young admirer. "He has been a visitor here many times."

"Yes, of course." Lady Malfoy smiled politely. "How are you, Mr Zambini?"

"Just wonderful, thank you, Lady Malfoy," said Blaise, seating himself at the table. "Now Draco, you really let me down last night, I'm afraid. There I was at the Fenwicks' ball, telling everyone that you had sworn to me that you were going to attend, and then you never showed up, you coward. Lady Elizabeth was shadowing me all night, and every time she appeared she had a different fool dangling on her arm. I think she wanted to be sure that when you finally arrived you would see that she was having a marvellous time without you. While she seemed happy enough early on, as the hour grew later and the fellows traipsing around after her got progressively younger and more pitiful, you could almost feel the irritation seething from her across the room. By the end of the evening she was desperate enough to accept a dance from Lord Beckett's bran-faced son, and he barely comes up to her shoulder – she spent the entire time trying to keep him from bumping his nose into her chest!" He laughed.

"Why, Draco did one of your friends give a party yesterday?" asked Lady Malfoy.

"There was a gathering at Lord and Lady Fenwick's," Draco replied.

"Why didn't you go?"

"I didn't feel like going out."

"Really, Draco, this shyness of yours just won't do," Lady Malfoy chided. "You have to make yourself go out, and once you are there I'm certain you will find that you will have a wonderful time."

"I'm sure you would have, Draco," Blaise agreed, rising from the table to inspect the feast of breakfast foods laid out on the marble-topped sideboard. "Lady Whitaker was there, and everyone was fawning all over her because her husband had just purchased a magnificent diamond necklace for her from some jewel dealer he met from Belgium," he recounted, heaping a selection of meats and rolls onto his plate. "The stone at the center of the necklace is apparently quite well known – it is call the Star of Persia, or some such thing. People were saying it once belonged to an empress, and that it is unspeakably valuable because of its clarity and its unusual shade of pink. It aroused such fascination that it was even mentioned in the Daily Prophet this morning, if you can believe that," he finished, chuckling. "That just shows you just what a dull night it was."

Lady Malfoy dropped her teacup, spilling its contents all over the table.

"Let me help you, my lady," offered Telford, rushing forth with a napkin.

"Leave it!" Lady Malfoy's entire body was rigid as she fixed her gaze on Blaise. "I believe, Mr Zambini, that you must be mistaken." Her hands gripped the table as she spoke, as if she were struggling for support. "The Star of Persia belongs to me. It was a gift from my husband on the night that my darling Draco was born. Although I seldom have an opportunity to wear it, it is a gift I nonetheless cherish deeply. I would never sell it, ever. It is a precious heirloom, and an irreplaceable memento of the birth of my son. I plan to give it to Draco when he grows up, so that he may present it to his wife when she bears their first child. So you see, Lady Whitaker could not possibly have been wearing it last night. Whatever Lord Whitaker purchased may have been very exceptional, but it was most assuredly not the Star of Persia."

Blaise glanced uneasily at Draco.

"Of course you are right, Mother," Draco agreed, his voice low and comforting. "Lord Whitaker probably bought something that merely resembled that Star of Persia, and people got confused about its history. Either that or the dealer lied to him about the stone. Either way, you have nothing to worry about. Your necklace is perfectly safe."

She nodded, but her gaze was panicked, as if she didn't know whether or not to believe him.

"Would you like to see the necklace?" she asked Blaise. "I can get it for you if you like. It will only take a moment."

Again, Blaise stole a glance at Harrison, whose eyes told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to accept her offer.

"Perhaps another time," Blaise said amiably. "These sweet rolls look absolutely delectable, Telford," he remarked, changing the subject. "You must tell Mrs. Griffen I simply adore her baking." He piled two of them onto his plate and returned to the table, where he tucked into his meal with great enthusiasm.

"Mother, would you like some more tea?" Draco could see that she was still upset by the mention of her necklace.

"No, thank you, Draco." She released her grip upon the table and stood. "I really must get back to organizing your party." She managed a forced smile. "Has Draco told you about it yet, Mr. Blaise?"

Again Blaise looked to Draco for guidance. Draco gave him a slight nod.

"Yes, Lady Malfoy, he did," Blaise assured her. "It sounds like it's going to be wonderful."

"And can you come?"

"Nothing could keep me from it."

"Splendid. Well, then, I must get to work writing the invitations. You boys eat – but no coffee, Draco, is that clear? It isn't good for you."

"Yes, Mother. Where did you want to write your invitations?"

"Why, I thought I would work on them at my desk in my room. Why?"

"Telford will see you upstairs, then."

"Really, Draco, that isn't at all necessary. Telford has better things to do than escort me around the house. I'm not an invalid, you know, and I'm quite aware of where my own chamber is."

"Actually, your ladyship, I was just about to go upstairs anyway," Telford assured her.

Lady Malfoy regarded him suspiciously. "Why?"

"I need to fetch something from Lord Malfoy's wardrobe," he quickly improvised.

Because of his mother's condition, Draco preferred to keep his staff to a minimum, and therefore he did not employ a valet. Fewer servants meant he could afford to pay the ones he did have better wages, which made them less apt to seek employment elsewhere. Loyalty and discretion were important to him. He did not want servants who came and went and then gossiped to others about his mother's fragile state of mind. Also, he had learned over the years that his mother did not tolerate change very well. She needed routine and familiar surroundings and people in order to function well.

In that respect, her illness resembled the senility that had gradually broken the mind of her husband.

"Very well, Telford, if you are planning to go upstairs anyway, then you may accompany me – although I really don't feel it is necessary." She smiled at Blaise once more. "Very nice to see you again, Mr. Zambini. I shall look forward to seeing you at Draco's party."

"And I look forward to attending," Blaise assured her, politely rising from his seat. "I'm sure it's going to be grand."

Draco also rose from his chair as his mother left the room. When she and Telford were gone, he sank back down and took a final swallow of his coffee.

"Did Lady Malfoy really own the Star of Persia?" asked Blaise curiously.

Draco nodded. "Unfortunately, it was one of the many things my father was forced to sell after his investments began to fail."

"But he didn't tell her?"

"I suspect he wasn't thinking clearly at the time," Draco replied carefully. "He was completely overwhelmed by the debts that surrounded him. But he also wanted to protect my mother from the knowledge of just how badly he had handled their wealth. I suppose at first he thought that he would sell a few things and relieve some of the financial pressure on him, and hope that eventually some of his investments would bear fruit." His expression was grim. "Unfortunately, that was not the case."

"So did your mother ever learn about what happened to her jewels?"

"Yes," Draco replied shortly. Even though Blaise had been a friend of his for nearly two years, he did not like discussing his family's past with him. Some things were better left buried. "Her memory, however, became rather selective after my father died."

"Maybe you should go to Lord Whitaker and offer to buy the necklace from him," Blaise suggested. "It would undoubtedly please your mother to have it back in her possession."

Draco's expression was noncommittal. "My mother's reactions to things can be a bit unpredictable. Also, it is doubtful that Lady Whitaker would be willing to part with a piece that has already generated her so much admiration and publicity."

"You're right about that she was positively glowing as everyone crowded about her, gawking at her great prow of a chest. I don't imagine she's had that many people toss her a second glance since the day she was married, and that was before I was born!" Blaise laughed. "But if you are interested, you'd best make an offer quickly, before the Dark Shadow swoops down and steals the thing away. Everyone last night was nattering on about how once he gets wind of the fact that this famous necklace is in London, he'll be positively desperate to add it to his collection. It must be worth at least ten times whatever your father paid for it over forty years ago."

Blaise was probably right, Draco realized. The thief currently playing the Dark Shadow had demonstrated his eye for the very best, and showed remarkable restraint each time he slipped into a house. Just as Draco had, some sixteen years earlier. Draco's rationale for doing so had been simple. He had only taken what he knew for certain had belonged to his estate. Those magnificent jewels his father had sold at a fraction of their value, in a heartbreaking moment of madness and desperation. Everything else Draco had left untouched. That had the advantage of delaying the moment in which the owners of the purloined jewellery realized that something had been taken. By the time the police had been called in to investigate, they were rooting around house that had been robbed days, or sometimes even weeks earlier. There were, quite simply almost no clues to be had. All that was certain was that someone had slipped in and out unnoticed, destroying nothing, and harming no one.

That was the critical difference between himself and the man who had stolen his guise.

Draco had been determined to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his, without causing injury or bloodshed. The current Dark Shadow was apparently only interested in stealing the most valuable jewels he could find. He didn't give a damn who got hurt or killed in the process. The longer he continued at his game, the greater the risk of more people being injured. For that reason alone he had to be stopped. But Draco also had a more personal need to bring the daring thief's career to an end. By adopting the persona Draco had created, this new burglar had aroused much interest in the past exploits of the Dark Shadow. While the detectives who had worked on the case sixteen years earlier had never been able to uncover Draco's involvement, it was possible this time he would not be so fortunate. Some earnest young detective might take a renewed interest in examining the Dark Shadow's past exploits, to see how they compared to those of the present. That was dangerous. Whether the man playing at the Dark Shadow realized it or not, by emulating the thief Draco had created, he had the power to bring Draco's carefully constructed life crashing down around him.

Draco could not permit that to happen.

"That was absolutely delicious," said Blaise, finishing off the last of his sweet roll. "That Mrs. Griffin of yours really is a gem. You mustn't let her slip through your fingers, Draco, or I'll be forced to find someplace else to drop in for breakfast. I have an idea," he said brightly, setting his napkin aside. "Let's go down to the Marbury Club and see if anyone is taking bets on whether the Dark Shadow will try to nick Lady Whitaker's necklace tonight, before she and Lord Whitaker leave for Paris tomorrow. I'm bound to make a few pounds out of old Lord Sullivan on that."

"How do you know which way Lord Sullivan will wager?"

"I don't," he replied, shrugging. "I just tell him how I plan to bet, and he bets against me. He doesn't really care whether he wins or loses, he just enjoys the sport of telling everyone how completely idiotic my predictions are. If I bet that the Dark Shadow will wait until Lady Whitaker returns from her trip abroad. There will be a lot of gruff arguing as Lords Shelton and Reynolds jump into the fray, a few names will be called, and then we can all have lunch. I think they're serving boiled leg of lamb with white sauce today – that's one of my favourites."

Draco's mind began to race. Blaise was probably right, he realized. If the Dark Shadow knew about the Star of Persia – and given the attention the stone had aroused the previous evening, Draco could not imagine that he didn't – then he would most likely attempt to steal it that night, before Lady Whitaker had a chance to take it abroad. If Draco had wanted to steal the necklace, he certainly wouldn't have waited around for a month or more to see if it would return.

No point in permitting such a magnificent piece to go to France, where some other eager jewel thief could find it too tempting to ignore.

"What do you say, then, Draco? Are you up for a visit to your club?"

"Not today, Blaise, I'm afraid," Draco replied. "I have a meeting scheduled for this morning, and then there are a number of matters I must attend to this afternoon. Sorry about that." Blaise was not a member of the Marbury Club, and therefore he relied upon Draco to take him there as a guest. "Since Telford has gone upstairs with my mother, I'll see you to the door." He rose from the table.

"That's a pity." Blaise looked genuinely disappointed as Draco escorted him to the foyer. "What about tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow might be a possibility. We shall have to see."

"Very well. Are you planning to attend Lord and Lady Beckett's party tonight? It promises to be quite grad. If you go, I shall do my utmost to protect you from Lady Elizabeth," he joked. "Given her profound irritation with you last night, I fear you will need my protection."

"I don't know whether I'll be going or not," Draco replied evasively. If h were going to break into Lord Whitaker's home that night, preparations had to be made. He did not want to waste time at some bloody party.

"Fine then, abandon me," his friend teased. "I shall tell all the men that you're off having a torrid night of pleasure with a beautiful young French dancer, and inform all the women that you are preoccupied with going over your plans for a massively expensive addition to your country estate. That will give them all something to talk about."

"I don't particularly want them talking about me," Draco said, opening the front door.

"That's impossible," Blaise pointed out. "You're titled, wealthy, relatively young, unattached, and form hat I hear, women don't find your appearance altogether hideous. If you show up, they will gossip about how much you are currently worth, whom you are going to dance with, and who has a chance of ultimately becoming your bride. If you don't show up, they will gossip about how much you are currently worth, whom you danced with the last time they saw you, and what on earth you could be doing that could take precedence over attending such an important party. That is where I, as your friend, simply have to intervene. I don't want them to think you're at home padding about in your slippers, reading dusty books and sipping cocoa. It isn't good for your image, Draco," he finished, going out the door. "Trust me."

Draco watched as Blaise climbed into his waiting carriage. He didn't really give a damn about his image, he thought, closing the door. People could think whatever the hell they wanted about him – as long as they left his mother and the memory of his father alone.

And never found out the truth about the exploits of his past.

The Dark Shadow's reign of thievery was coming to an end, Draco decided, filled with a sudden sense of urgency. If the thief were anything like him, he would not waste a moment trying to steal the exquisite Star of Persia. Draco would break into Lord Whitaker's home that night, wait for the Shadow to appear, and confront him a final time. And this time, he would make sure no one else got hurt.

Even if that meant Draco had to kill the murdering bastard himself.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

He lay perfectly still, his breath trapped tight within his chest, slowly counting.

He had already started to hold his breath three times before, and had been unable to contain it for his usual time. His weakness infuriated him. It was possible that the dusty, dank air trapped underneath the bed where he hid was too wretched for his lungs to tolerate. It didn't matter. Excuses were for cowards and weaklings. Each time he had failed he forced himself to start over, sucking in a great long draught of air as he forced his chest, lungs, and abdomen to relax. But his body was treacherous. It protested. It twisted and strained and grew taut. His chest swelled until his ribs ached, his face contorted and became hot and bloated. _A few seconds longer_, he commanded, fighting for dominance of his physical needs. _A few seconds more..._

His mouth betrayed him, exploding open like a sudden yawning tear. He inhaled a stale breath of air, furious and frustrated. What the hell was the matter with him? He was about to perform the perfect crime. Each of his preceding robberies had been but an insignificant rehearsal for what he was about to do. Yet here he was gasping like a newborn, unable to summon either the discipline or the focus to achieve one of his most basic skills. Was this a warning that he was somehow off tonight? Should he reconsider going through with his carefully cultivated plan? Was the uncertainty that had started to nag him after he wrestled with Malfoy several nights earlier an indication that he was losing his edge?

He gave himself a mental shake. He was not losing a goddamn thing. As for his edge, it had been too keenly honed after far too many years of bitterness and anger to be even remotely blunted by some cursory physical discomfort. Suffering was a catalyst for strength and determination. It had enabled him to shed his pathetic little existence and transform himself into someone of accomplishment and renown. In that unexpected way, what had happened to his family had actually been good for him.

It was far easier to sever one's roots when the ground in which they lay was putrid.

He heard a noise. He strained to listen, his ears attuned to the farthest corners of the house he could manage from the confines of the guest bedroom he had chosen. Whatever the noise to relax a little, settling back against the hardness of the floor.

His evening had been passed listening to the sounds of the household, from Lord and Lady Whitaker's animated arguments over what they needed to pack for their sojourn to Paris, to the irritated mutterings and frantic footfalls of their harried servants as they bustled to and fro. Eventually, a chilly clam descended upon the house. A series of polite "good nights" were exchanged. Doors were closed, water splashed in basins, beds squeaked. The soft orange light beneath the door was extinguished. And still he waited. For what he estimated was at least two hours more, until he could be sure that the warm waters of sleep had enveloped everyone within, save himself.

And, if God was generous, Malfoy.

He flexed his fingers, slowly opening and closing his fists as he considered the two ways the night might unravel. The first was that he would simply break open the safe in Lord Whitaker's study, steal the Star of Persia, and make his way from the house with one of the most valuable diamonds in Europe tucked safely in his pocket. If that was all the evening held for him, he could hardly complain in just one night. And the Dark Shadow could still go on to steal more whenever he felt it was necessary or even just amusing to do so.

He sighed. The idea of squeezing into more tight, dank spaces and waiting for hours on end to sneak out and nick some glittery bauble struck him as vaguely unappealing – even a bit torturous. Perhaps it was just his mood, or the fact that it was so bloody hot and close under the bed. More likely it was the recognition that each robbery had become progressively less exhilarating for him, despite the inherent danger and the exorbitant value of whatever he had stolen. If it were completely up to him, he would actually have preferred that this particular night be his last as the Dark Shadow.

Unfortunately, that was something that was beyond his control.

Suddenly restless, he shimmied out from under the bed, eager to get on with it. He stretched briefly, then reached under the bed and withdrew his carefully wrapped bundle of cracksman's tools. He didn't particularly like cracking safes, but it was a skill that could be learned like any other, and he figured he was about as good or even a bit better than any of the other cracksmen out there. At least he had the advantage of being able to afford the very best tools. He was also able to ascertain the degree of difficulty in opening a safe relatively quickly. If it didn't look as if he could do it within fifteen minutes, he didn't bother with it. There was always a jewel box somewhere holding a few pretty pieces that her ladyship hadn't bothered to give to her husband to lock up. He was quite certain, however, that Lord Whitaker would not have permitted such casual treatment of something as valuable as the Star of Persia. No, that stone could only be in Lord Whitaker's safe.

He had some work ahead of him.

He opened the door to the guestroom a crack, peered into the hallway, and listened. Silence. Satisfied that everyone was asleep, he slipped into the corridor, the black of his attire causing him to melt into the darkness. He made his way quickly down to the main floor. Then he crept along the walls, stealthy as a cat, searching for the door to Lord Whitaker's study. Once he had reached it he held still a moment, listening.

If Malfoy had come, he was most likely in the study, lying in wait, just as he had been that night at Lord Pembroke's house. He set down his bag of tools and carefully withdrew his wand from the waistband of his trousers. Then, moving with the silent grace for which the Dark Shadow was renowned, he eased the door open and pointed his wand at the darkness within, ready to fire at the slightest movement.

There was no one there.

A preliminary disappointment flushed through him. Not altogether convinced that he was alone, he entered the room, cautiously, his wand ready. There was no great wardrobe in Lord Whitaker's study in which Malfoy could hide. There was a modestly sized sofa at one end, but it sat upon feet that lifted it barely three inches off the floor to the drapes, which were closed and long enough to brush against the floor. Moving silently, he inched closer, studying the fall of the curtains. There were no bulges to suggest a man concealing himself behind them. A quick inspection of the floor revealed no feet peering out from beneath the fabric's hem. Turning, he advanced toward the desk, which was the final place a man might hide. His chest pounding, he leapt around it, his wand pointed squarely into the black cavern beneath.

Empty.

He raked his gaze across the study once more, wary. He had been all but positive that Malfoy would try to catch him. After all, Malfoy had to have suspected that the Dark Shadow would want to steal the Star of Persia that night.

Or had his lordship thought that he would wait until Lord Whitaker returned from Paris?

He stood frozen, his pistol ready. Perhaps Malfoy was still going to spring from somewhere. But after a span of relentless quiet, except for the ticking of a mantel clock somewhere in the dining room, he began to accept that Malfoy was not there. He lowered his pistol and permitted himself to relax slightly, genuinely disappointed.

It was just another robbery, then.

He retrieved his tool kit from the hallway, closed the study door, then moved behind Lord Whitaker's desk. He set his wand down upon its polished surface and opened his bag. He removed a small dark lantern, struck a match and lit the stubby candle within. A feeble yellow glow spat forth, barely enough to light a foot in front of the lantern, but ample for his purposes. He scanned the walls behind the desk, which were elegantly paneled in dark English oak. Sliding his fingers along the lower wainscoting, he felt for a slight variance in the spacing between the panels. After a moment he found it.

He gripped the wood trim at the top and pulled, causing the panel to swing open and expose the black iron safe behind. He moved his lantern closer, inspecting the formidable door's make, markings, and lock. It was a Chubb brand, well regarded for it strength and reliability. A quick study told him that it was an old model, however, manufactured before the improved locks that the company had introduced in 1860.

Thankfully, Lord Whitaker was not a slave to new fangled technology.

He knocked lightly upon the safe door, trying to ascertain its depth and strength. The more recent safes were made heavier and more durable, with casings that were resistant to almost any drill. With the right tools and sufficient skill, however, the older models could be penetrated. He debated the best way to crack it. He considered using a peter-cutter, which fixed a center bit into the keyhole of the lock, after which a drill was attached. With sufficient strength and determination, the lock could be broken and the door forced. It could be a time-consuming job, however, and the results were not certain. Blowing the lock apart with gunpowder was another option, but that would be too noisy.

Ultimately, he removed his drill, center bit, a lock to hold the drill fast, a metal saw, and a heavy, stout crowbar called a jemmy. He would drill and cut an opening above the keyhole, making it just big enough for him to slip his hand through. Then he would reach inside, pull back the bolt of the lock and open the safe door.

A bit time-consuming, but beautifully simple and sure.

He carefully laid his tools out on the carpet before him, in the precise order in which he intended to use them. He rubbed his sleeve over the metal door, polishing the spot where he planned to drill. Then he fixed his bit onto his drill, pressed it hard against the black metal and begun to turn the crank, driving its sharp point into the safe's cool surface.

It took him a little longer than he had anticipated to carve and chisel an opening sufficiently big for him to put his hand through. When he finally had succeeded, his mask and clothes were wet with perspiration, and his arms aching from exertion. None of that mattered, however. Filled with anticipation, he eased his hand into the hole he had cut and felt around for the mechanism of the lock. Then he closed his eyes and ran his fingers over it, learning its structure. Once he was sufficiently acquainted with the complex nooks and rounds, he found the bolt and gently pushed it back.

The door slipped open.

His heart pounded with triumph and relief. The hardest part was over. He reached deep into the safe's grotto, searching for the box or bag in which the magnificent Star or Persia would be resting.

"It isn't there," drawled a voice.

He froze.

Summoning calm, he gradually extracted his arm from the empty safe. He was in a squatting position, which was advantageous, he realized, squinting through the gloom at the sober-faced man who had managed to creep into the study without his knowledge as he laboured on the safe. His fingers lightly grazed the carpet, grasping the jemmy. He stood slowly, concealing the iron bar behind his sleeve.

"I'm placing you under arrest," Lewis informed him, levelling his wand upon him. "If you have any weapons, I advise you to drop them. You won't be harmed as long as you cooperate."

His captor could only be an Auror, he realized, to spew utter nonsense with such a grave sincerity. His lack of uniform suggested that he was an inspector. That made him feel a little better, at least.

He would have hated to think that he had been lured into a trap by some lowly, underpaid constable.

"My wand is on the desk," he said quietly, making it sound as if he were resigned to his fate. And then, because he sensed his captor was quiet sensibly wary of him, he added in a reassuring voice, "I won't fight you. I know when I've been bested."

Lewis stared at him guardedly. Lord Malfoy was a gentleman, who probably considered his word to be infallible. Unfortunately, he was also a cold-blooded murdered, who had cut down two men without mercy, during his illustrious career as a jewel thief.

Lewis did not intend to become his third victim.

"Step away from the desk, slowly," Lewis commanded, seeking to put some distance between the thief and his weapon. His voice was unnaturally high, betraying his nervousness. He cleared his throat. "Very good. Now don't move."

He had no experience in arresting a criminal as dangerous as the Dark Shadow. All he had to do was get the magical manacles on him, and then he could be sure the thief was under control. He was tempted to call for Constable Wilkins, who was positioned on the uppermost floor. Lewis had ordered him to watch all the servants' doors, in case the Dark Shadow decided to enter by way of the roof. Lewis knew that on occasion he had done so in the past. But not that night. Lewis wasn't sure how the thief had entered Lord Whitaker's home. At that particular point, it scarcely mattered. He had finally caught him. As long as the Dark Shadow didn't try to evade arrest, his deadly career was finally over.

Lewis's own career, on the other hand, was just about to begin.

"That was most clever of you, Inspector, the way you set this entire evening up," the Dark Shadow remarked, his voice laced with admiration. "I suspect you knew that the Star of Persia once belonged to my family. You must have realized I would want to get it back."

"I hoped it would capture your attention," Lewis admitted. "Once I suspected it was you who was responsible for the robberies, Lord Malfoy, I began to look for a pattern – not in how you robbed, which was self-evident, but in what you robbed. I started to look more closely at your thefts of the past, and the history of those particular jewels. That was when I discovered they all had a unique link to one another. Each piece had been part of your estate before you father died – some of them for several generations. That is when I came up with the idea of getting Lord and Lady Whitaker to pretend they had the Star of Persia in their possession. I felt certain you would be eager to reclaim that particular piece."

"Very astute of you." His captive tilted his masked head in tribute.

Lewis nodded He had not expected Lord Malfoy to be quite so civilized in his arrest. That was the way of things amongst the aristocracy, he supposed. They might succumb to the baser acts of stealing and murder like any other common criminal. But when they realized they had been caught, they remembered who they were and conducted themselves accordingly.

Which was going to make Lewis's job considerably easier.

"If you'll just hold out your hands for me, I'm afraid I'm going to have to put these manacles on. It's just a formality, you understand," he added. "I'm required to do it."

"I understand," the Dark Shadow assured him. He obligingly raised one hand, patiently watching as his earnest inspector bent his head to fix the manacle onto his wrist.

Then she smashed him across the back of his skull with his jimmy, causing Lewis to crumple heavily onto the floor.

He stood above him a moment, his weapon poised to bash him again if he so much as twitched. He didn't want to kill him, he reminded himself, fighting for control. After all, this inspector was now an essential component of finishing the game.

"Drop it," commanded a low voice suddenly, "before I blow your goddamn head off."

He looked up, startled. The room was still cloaked in shadows, relieved only marginally by the thin spit of light from his small lantern. It didn't matter. He knew the masked figure standing before him.

"Good evening, Malfoy," he said, trying to contain the sheer exaltation pulsing through his veins. He was not to be denied after all. "I was worried you weren't going to show up."

"Drop your jemmy and move away from him," Draco repeated, holding his wand steady.

Once Draco had seen Inspector Lewis slip into Lord Whitaker's study, he had thought that it was over. He had half-toyed with the idea of just stealing out of the house then and there, leaving the Auror Force to enjoy the splendid victory of the Dark Shadow's arrest. But the moment he realized that there were no eager Auror constables lined up in the corridor to rush in and assist the intrepid detective, Draco had hesitated. His own previous altercation with the jewel thief made him absolutely certain that his nemesis would not surrender easily. And so he had waited, wondering if inspector Turner had any idea just now dangerous the man he had conspired to trap was.

The moment he heard the sound of a body crashing to the floor, he knew the inspector had lost.

"I must say, I'm glad you decided to come," the Dark Shadow remarked blithely, ignoring his order. What with the Aurors and Lord and Lady Whitaker going to such trouble to lure me here, it would have been a shame if you missed it." He tapped his jemmy lightly against his palm.

Draco inched closer, shrinking the distance between them. "You might as well drop your jemmy. I don't plan to get close enough to you to let you use it on me, and if you try to use it on the poor inspector, I promise I'll curse you before you land a single blow."

"You're right," the Dark Shadow conceded, sighing. "It seems the game really has come to an end." He shrugged his shoulders, then leaned toward the desk, ostensibly to toss his jemmy on it.

Instead he grabbed his wand and pointed it at Malfoy.

"Now, this is a fascinating development, don't you think, Malfoy?" His voice taunting. "Once again we are equally matched – more or less. The only difference is that I have the bullocks to actually shoot you, whereas you, I'm afraid, are rather unsure as to whether or not you are desperate enough to curse me."

Draco raised his wand higher, aiming at the bastard's head. "Don't put me to the test," he warned softly.

The Dark Shadow stared at him a moment, his gaze unfathomable. Then he suddenly shifted his aim from Draco to the pathetically vulnerable inspector's head. "Drop your wand now, Malfoy," he snarled, "or I'll blast the handsome inspector's brains all over Lord Whitaker's impeccably woven Turkish carpet."

Draco hesitated. He could not be sure that the Dark Shadow would actually carry through with his threat. But the memory of poor Lord Pembroke's house elf filled his mind, a silver shaft protruding from his chest. There has been blood everywhere that night, leaking all over the rumpled white of the house elf's shirt. No one could save him. Just as no one could save Inspector Turner if the bastard standing over him blasted a gaping hole in his skull.

His body rigid with fury, Draco reluctantly dropped his wand.

"Excellent choice." The Dark Shadow nodded with approval. "And now if you'll forgive me, I really must be off." He edged his way to the windows, his weapon still levelled at the prone figure of Inspector Turner. "I'm sure you and the inspector here will have much to talk about after I leave." He parted the curtains and raised the sash.

"You can't get away," Draco said. "There are constables posted outside watching the house. They'll shoot you long before you make it to the ground."

"Actually, I don't believe the inspector has much help in this," the Dark Shadow remarked, peering outside. "I had a good look around before I came in, and I didn't see anyone unusual hanging about. However, you're absolutely right, there's probably a constable or two lurking somewhere. Let's give them something interesting to find, shall we?"

He aimed his wand at Inspector Turner's head.

Draco roared with rage and lunged toward him, grabbing his arm just as the curse shoot. The Dark Shadow heaved Draco aside, than vaulted himself over the windowsill. By the time Draco reached the window the thief was already nimbly making his way through the darkness of the garden behind the house.

Draco swore and hoisted one leg over the sash. He would find him and kill him if it was the last thing he did, he vowed, dragging his other leg over. He would tear him apart with his bare hands –

"Stop or I'll shoot!"

A terrified young constable raced into the study brandishing a quivering wand. When he saw Inspector Turner's body, his face contorted with horror.

"It wasn't me!" Draco realized it looked as if he was the one who had shot the inspector. "The Dark Shadow is getting away –"

"Shut your gob!" Constable Wilkins snapped, his wand trembling. "Your under arrest, do you hear? And if you so much as sneeze, I'll kill you, do you understand?"

Draco closed his eyes, fighting the mounting pressure that was starting to spread against the front of his skull. It was over, he realized. No one would believe that there had actually been another thief there with him, who had broken into Lord Whitaker's safe and the shot the inspector as he tried to arrest him. Besides, the Aurors had already decided that Draco was the Dark Shadow. That was why they had created the fantasy lure of the Star of Persia.

Someone had finally deciphered the evidence of his past.

He slowly climbed back into the study, feeling old and defeated.

And agonizingly aware that he had failed, leaving both Hermione and Flynn hopelessly vulnerable.


End file.
